


Seventy Times Seven

by 3scoremiles10



Series: Robin of Sherwood [9]
Category: Robin of Sherwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-25
Updated: 2008-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3scoremiles10/pseuds/3scoremiles10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood's thicker than water, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventy Times Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: ... er, Will's dodgy and colourful language.  
> Rating: PG I suppose. No smut, mildly slashy subtext.
> 
> Beta'd by the ever diligent luthien13
> 
> All the mistakes are my own, all the toys are someone else's.
> 
> Comments / con-crit / alien probes welcome.
> 
> Well, okay, maybe not the probes.
> 
> So, on to part one, in which Will has questions, Robin has a confession and Marion has a wimple.

_Then Peter came to him and said “Lord, how oft should my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Until seven times?”  Jesus saith unto him “I say not unto thee until seven times, but until seventy times seven”. ~ Matt 18:21-22_

 

Will did not have the faintest idea what the bloody fuck was going on, but whatever it was, he was damned if he was just going to sit around and wait for it to happen.  Everything had been strange since Marion had hied herself off to her nunnery, leaving the rest of them to stumble on as they could.  Well, leaving Robin to stumble: the man had barely been able to think in a straight sodding line since she’d gone.  Even Will’s best remedy for ills of the heart hadn’t helped much: Robin had drunk himself senseless, blubbed on Will’s shoulder like a girl, and woken up the next morning with a hangover the size of France and a shamefaced expression.  Nasir had growled something at both of them in Arabic – and just why in all hells the man didn’t use English like a proper person when he spoke it well enough was beyond Will at the best of times – and taken Robin off and dunked him in the river until he came up spluttering and sober.  Robin had not been able to look Will in the eyes for two days after that.  Nasir, who never had trouble meeting anyone’s gaze, had done enough glaring for them both.

They really ought to have been celebrating, and Marion be damned.  Silly chit would come to her senses eventually: she wouldn’t last two seasons locked up behind Halstead’s walls with nothing to do but embroider and play with kittens, or whatever it was that noble-born novice nuns did.  In the meantime, there was Sir bleeding Guy of sodding Gisburne’s terribly unfortunate demise to gloat over, and Will found it downright unsettling how little gloating they’d got done.  This was Gisburne, after all: the man who had made their lives hell – well, awkward – for nigh on three years.  Surely that merited a drinking session or two, and never mind what Naz thought.  If you could even tell what Naz thought.  He might chatter like a bloody jackdaw to Robin (Will doubted that, actually, but apparently the man did talk) but he barely said a word to anyone else.  Will found his imperious silence frustrating.  It was hard to start a decent argument with a man who wouldn’t even yell back.

He’d have argued with John, just for something to do, if John hadn’t been mooning around like a lost puppy as well, and all because Meg had gone off the idea of sitting on her bum watching sheep.  Bloody pathetic was what that was.  Anyone would think these idiots had never dallied with a girl before and had it turn bad.  For hell’s sake, it wasn’t as if anyone

_(Elena)_

had actually died.

More’s the fucking pity.  Still, there was always hope.  The King’s Constable up in Lincolnshire might decide to have Gisburne hanged, yet.  That thought made Will rather cheerful.

What was not cheering, though, was that Robin had sloped off again on another of his secret forays.  He’d been doing that lately, sneaking about like a cutpurse looking for a pocket to pick … or a rat looking for a ship to abandon.  That set Will’s teeth on edge: Robin had been secretive before, but never furtive.  This time he’d taken Nasir with him – thick as thieves, those two, all of a fucking sudden – and Will liked that even less.  If Robin was secretive, Nasir was downright impossible.  Push Robin into a corner and he just got haughty and commanding, bloody earl’s son talking down to the servants.  Push Nasir and you took the chance of ending up dead.  Well, not dead, maybe – Will had known the Saracen for enough years and been through enough shades of hell with him to call the man a friend, and Naz didn’t make a habit of knocking off his mates (though there was that one time, with that Sarak fellow, but necessity could be a hard bitch like that).  But he had no qualms about setting them on their arses if he thought they were getting their noses too far into his business.  All of which made finding out what the bloody fuck was going on rather difficult, but it didn’t mean that Will wasn’t going to try.

 

“They’re holding him in Newark.”  Robin kicked unhappily at a moss-covered log, sending splinters of rotted wood flying.  “In the common cells.  Brewer’s petitioning the king for his head.”

Nasir only nodded, sitting cross-legged in a fall of pale autumn sun.  He removed a stray clump of wood pulp from his trews with a fastidious flick of one hand, and gave his companion a flat, eloquent look.  Robin sighed and left the log alone.  He slumped back against a tree instead.

“The king will probably give it to him too, given Brewer’s claim that Gisburne lost the grain on purpose in an effort to undermine Lackland’s bloody campaign.  As if Gisburne’s interested in Wales.  As if _anyone’s_ interested in Wales.” 

Well, Nasir thought, that was probably true.  Wales was rather grim.

“Which means Gisburne doesn’t stand a chance unless someone makes Brewer – or the king – a better offer.”

Nasir slanted him a knowing look.  “You mean coin.”

“And a lot of it.”  Robin scowled briefly, shoving himself away from the tree and stalking about in a circle.  Nasir sat where he was, head cocked attentively, and watched him.  The younger man paced briefly, then stopped on the spot and spun back to face his friend, making a hard slashing gesture with one hand.  “It’s ridiculous.  Gisburne can’t raise money like that, not with his miserable estates –assuming he still has them, which I doubt; they’ve most likely been made forfeit to the Crown, given how grasping our good King John’s been lately.  De Rainault won’t pay: he as good as sold Gisburne to Brewer in the first place in return for salvaging his own damnable reputation after that sorry mess at Grimstone.  And if Guy has friends, I’ve never heard of them.”

So, it was Guy now, was it?  Nasir raised his eyebrows at that and said nothing.  Everything about the other man seemed sharp with frustration, but Nasir, who had caught the unease in his voice and the uncertainty in his eyes, knew Robin too well for that.  He was edgy about something: that was as plain as day.  It only remained to be seen what that something was.  That Robin would come out with it, Nasir did not doubt.  Franks were appalling at keeping things to themselves, and in any case, Robin told him most things in the end.

Robin looked hard at Nasir, then came and sprawled beside him on the rock-strewn ground.  “It’s maddening.  It’s _Gisburne_.  I’ve half a mind – more than half a mind, sometimes – to let him hang and be damned.”

Which meant that he also half a mind to save the wretch’s life.  Nasir found that interesting.  In a deliberately unconcerned tone, he said, “Gisburne has much to answer for.  His fate is not our concern.”

“ _Inshallah_ , you mean?”

Nasir shrugged, said nothing.  After a moment, Robin sighed and pushed one hand through his fair hair, setting it all awry.  It made him look even younger than he was: an earnest and ill-kempt boy playing at outlaws.

“Sweet Jesú, Malik, you’re a wonder, you know that?”  He sounded half resentful, half amused.  “You’ve been listening to me go on about Gisburne for a sennight and more, and not once asked why.  It would be the obvious question, you know – why do I care?”  Robin looked at him sidelong, canny about the edges.  “For any other man it would be.”

“You’ll tell me,” Nasir said calmly, as if it were of no import.  “Or you won’t.  A question is of no use until a man is ready to answer.”

Robin snorted.  “I can just imagine campfire conversation amongst your people.  Must be the quietest thing in the world.”

“Actually, no.”  Nasir roused himself to cast the other man a quick, white smile.  “We sing, and argue, and contest in poetry.  But pointless questions we avoid.”

“Poetry,” Robin said dubiously, giving his friend a skeptical look.  He was answered by an elegant dip of Nasir’s dark head.

“Oh, yes.”

“And song.”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“No.”  Nasir’s lips quirked in the way that Robin had come to know meant laughter.  "I do not lie.  For, surely, truth is beloved of Allah.”

Robin thought about that for a moment.  Then he said, very quietly, his gaze fixed on his own hands as if they were the most fascinating things in the world, “He’s my brother.”

Silence met that, and a sudden stillness that made the air seem to quiver in anticipation. 

“Nasir?”  Robin frowned and glanced up, apprehensive.  The dark-eyed intensity of the other man’s gaze made him swallow, dry-mouthed.  A rabbit must feel like this, he thought, when the hawk’s shadow passes over.  He tried to shake it off.  “Malik?”

“Gisburne is.”  Very flat, and oddly emphatic.  Robin wondered what to make of that.  He nodded, unsure.

“He doesn’t know it.  No one does, except…Well, Tuck does, I think, and Lady Gisburne, but she’s dead.  And I suppose Lord Edmond knew he was played for a cuckold, even if he didn’t know by whom.  I only found out by accident, at Croxden.  The abbey.  You remember?”  God’s teeth, he was babbling.  He made himself stop.

“Tuck knows?”

“I think so.  But he won’t say anything,” Robin replied quickly.  “Whatever he knows was told to him under the seal of Confessional, and he won’t break that.”

Another odd Frankish custom: to tell one’s transgressions in secret, as if that made them less ill.  Nasir, though, had more pressing concerns than trying to understand aspects of the Christian ritual.  He tilted his head, watching Robin carefully.  “Tell me.”

“What?”

“How?”

Robin blinked.  “How?  The… Well, the usual way, I expect.  My father was besotted with the Lady Gisburne.  Her husband, Lord Edmond of Gisburne, had taken the Cross and disappeared in the Holy Land, and everyone thought him dead.  My father courted Lady Gisburne, she received him, and … well …”

Nasir snorted and made a small, complicated gesture with one hand.  “An old story.”  And so it was: absent husband, young wife, courtly lover … and then an unexpected return and shame upon all their houses.  In his land, blood feuds had been started over less.  “So Gisburne does not know.  And your father?”

“Sweet Jesú, no!  And I pray he never finds out.”

Nasir narrowed his eyes, surprised at Robin’s answer, and the fervour behind it.  That the Earl was unaware he’d fathered a son on his paramour made the man, in Nasir’s opinion, either extremely careless or impressively obtuse – most men, in his experience, could count to nine and know.  And a man should acknowledge his mistakes, bastards amongst them.  He did not say that, though.  There was such a thing as good manners, even when one was lurking in an infidel forest discussing adultery with an idealistic young Frank possessed of a conscience and no sense of irony at all.  Robin was still talking.

“No, think about it.  Gisburne might be bastard born, but he’s of good blood on both sides.  And if my father knew, and he acknowledged him, that could be enough to let Gisburne inherit.  Especially with me out of the way.”  Robin made a sound that might have been a laugh, if it hadn’t been edged in stone.  “Hellfire, William of Normandy was a duke’s by-blow and he ended up King of England!  But Gisburne as the Earl of Huntingdon?”  He shuddered.  “The idea leaves me cold.”

There was a certain sense to that, Nasir could concede – and not only because no man liked to see his birthright usurped.  Huntingdon was a seat of some power, linked to the throne of Scotland, and Gisburne had shown himself to be a man not to be trusted with that.  Power was a privilege, to be wielded wisely and well or not at all.  Gisburne would never understand that.  One need only look at who his teachers had been.

“So, he is your brother.”  The Saracen gave a minimal hitch of one shoulder that was both accepting and somehow dismissive, as if to show that mattered only so far.  “He is also your enemy.  Think you the one removes the other?”

“Jesú, I wish it did.  I wish it were that simple.”  Robin sighed, kicking at a stray chunk of stone with the heel of his boot as if it were the source of his troubles.  “Then we could go our separate ways and be done.  Then I wouldn’t have to care.”

That made Nasir twitch his lips in a smile, quickly hidden: the one thing Robin could never master was indifference.  This young Frank was passionate about everything; it made him beautiful, but wore him thin – especially of late, what with him looking for any deserving cause he could find to take his mind from the woman he had lost.  Nasir only hoped that he would not burn himself to ash with the strength of his own fire; clearly Robin needed to learn how to bank the flames.  He said, “Your care is to your credit, _sadiqi_.  I doubt Gisburne loses sleep for fretting over you.” 

“Of course not.  He doesn’t know.”

“No, he does not know,” Nasir agreed.  And then, because it needed to be  said, “Truly, for him, do you believe it would matter if he did?”

Ah.  Now, there was the hard question, the one that Robin had been avoiding.  He tore a handful of leaves from a low bush, and set to shredding them into small strips.  “This is Gisburne.  Nothing matters to him, except himself.”

“It matters to you.  Blood is strong.  It calls, whether we will it or no.”

“Not that strong.” Robin looked up sharply, expression scornful.  “Trust me, I’m hardly going to fall into his arms and weep for joy at our newly found fraternity.”

“No?”  A clear hard glimmer of approval went with that, and, beneath it, something both more gentle and less kind.  “I am pleased to hear it.  He is not worthy of your tears.” 

Robin’s breath caught at the low throb of the other man’s tone; he dropped his eyes swiftly before they could betray him.  “Don’t, Malik.”  He is not; she

_(Marion)_

is not: it was not a stretch.  There was not really a difference.

Nasir said nothing, only waited.  Hearts, he knew, mended in their own time.  It hurt to watch this man struggle, to see him flail and fail and try, but there was nothing else he could do.  He had never been one for comfort and sympathy: he had always found action the best cure for wounds of the soul.  A hard ride on a good horse, a day’s long hunt, a war, an ambush, an enemy – all of them better than sitting and thinking on what had been lost.  Robin, though – ah, Robin needed something other from him than that.  Kind words, a friend’s warm embrace.  Nasir would have given those things to him too, if he’d only been a stronger man … or if Robin had not been able to see through and through him with those bright pale eyes.  After a moment, he reached over, touching his fingers, light and brief, to the pulse point of Robin’s throat.

“Robert.”

The young man stirred, drew a deep breath that twisted a little at the end, and went on as if nothing had happened.  A blackbird fluttered to the ground near the log he had kicked and started pecking about in the debris for grubs.  Robin watched it as he spoke, as if it were the last bird in the world.  “I don’t expect Gisburne to weep either, or to welcome this if he finds out.  He’d see it as another betrayal, another way in which he’s been denied what should have been his, with me and mine at the heart of it.  I think … Sweet saints help me, but I think I’d rather he never even knew.”

 _What should have been his_.  Nasir considered that, eyes thoughtful.  “Rob,” he said, finally.  “The blame is not yours.  You know that.  Yes?”

Nasir might have been talking about Gisburne, or he might not.  Robin, after all, had the habit of blaming himself for many things, displaced half-brothers and misplaced loves not least.  If he’d only gone to Halstead sooner, before Marion could ride to the Wheel and make her foul discovery, or if he’d not sent her to the priory in the first place … but no.  What-if was a game for fools.  In that much, at least, Robin knew his Saracen friend was right.  Nasir never bothered with maybes and might-have-beens.  Here and now, he would say, was enough for any man to contend with.

“I know.  I do.  That’s not it.”  He grimaced, fisted one hand in the damp leaf mould of the forest floor and flung the handful of dead leaves away in a burst of irritation.  The blackbird froze, then threw itself skyward, whistling in alarm.  “You wouldn’t understand.”

Nasir’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly at that.  He frowned faintly, drawing almost invisibly away.  “As you say.”

“Shit.”  Robin swore, grimaced again.  Damn the man for being so blasted touchy – and damn himself, too, for so often saying the wrong things.  He reached out, laid a hand on the other man’s arm.  “No, Malik, wait.  That came out wrong.  But this doesn’t even make sense to me; how can I expect it make sense to you?  How can you understand me when I don’t understand myself?  I have to say this, though, and I can’t say it to anyone but you.  I meant no offence.  I’m sorry.”

First there was stillness, and then Nasir relaxed, offering him a graceful nod that was not quite a bow.  “ _Al‘afwan, sadiqi_.  So, if you do not blame yourself, why does this trouble your heart?”

Robin thought of telling the other man that his heart had nothing to do with it, then decided that would be worse.  It would be a lie, and Nasir would know and give him that cool, disappointed look and say nothing, and Robin would feel small and stupid for the rest of the day.  This man, after all, was not someone he lied to.  There was so much between them that had to go unsaid: it would be highest folly to taint what they could say with untruth.  He shrugged, conceding.  “It’s something Will said.  And, I suppose, something you said too.”

Nasir’s brow creased in puzzlement.  “I?”

“Blood is strong.”  Robin mimicked his Saracen friend’s inflection and accent perfectly, and grinned briefly at the other man’s amused glance.  But then he repeated the words in his own voice, and their shared levity faltered and died.  “Blood is strong.”

“Ah.”  There was a dawning comprehension in Nasir’s eyes, and a low hint of regret in his tone.  He thought he knew what was coming.  Robin braced himself and let go.

“Will told me once – more than once, truth be told – that Gisburne and I are the same.  That he’s a nobleman and I’m an earl’s son and that makes us the same.  Because we come of the same stock.  And he’s right, about the stock at least, and wouldn’t that make a cat laugh?”

“Rob…”

“But here’s the thing, Malik.  If he’s right about that, what if he’s right about the other?”  Robin’s voice had an edge to it now, caught between pleading and ready to howl.  The words came faster, running out of him like blood.  “Gisburne is my father’s son, and look at him!  Cruel, vindictive, corrupt, lacking any feeling for those beneath him, or for anyone at all, for that matter.  And if he can be my brother and be so … so … _warped_ , so twisted away from anything noble and good, and the only difference is that I grew up in my father’s household and he _didn’t_ …”

“Rob, no.”

“… then how easily could I be him?  Or become him?  Because I think of who he is and what he is and I can’t help but wonder, if the tables had been turned and he was the favoured son and I was the bastard cast-off, how much would we be the same?  The same blood runs in him as runs in me – does the same darkness run there too?”  Blue eyes, murky and raw, found Nasir’s and clung with the need of a drowning man.  “Hell’s teeth, Malik, how much are he and I the same?”

There was no answer, only steady dark eyes staring back in a still, grave face.  Robin could feel his heart kicking hard, his breath ragged as if he’d just run a mile.  He was sure he was flushing like a fool.  The intensity of Nasir’s silent scrutiny was too much, of a sudden: he turned his face away.

_No, Rob.  Never hide your face from me._

Strong fingers caught him by the chin, gently and firmly lifting his face back into the light.  The dappled sun of the forest, green and gold, fell over his features, making his pale hair seem almost, softly, to glow.  Nasir’s eyes were unreadable, fiercely intense.  They searched his own, scouring him away layer by layer.  Robin waited, hardly breathing.  In his chest, his heart clenched and ached.

At last Nasir smiled, very faintly, and his eyes softened.  His hand brushed, almost an accident, down Robin’s neck, then went to his shoulder, clasping warm and tight. “No, Rob,” he said, low and very sure.  “No.  There is no resemblance.”

And again, Robin found he had to look away.

 

Sir Guy of Gisburne’s experience of prisons was extensive.  He had seen dungeons and deep cells, open pits and oubliettes, and cast peasants and thieves and uppity serfs into all of them.  He had seen the Tower of London and heard of the confinement of kings.  He had never, though, been held prisoner himself before now.  Not for any length of time, at least.

When he had first been cast into the dank, stinking cell that had been his whole world now for more than a month, he had fought and raged.  He was a

_(worthless bastard)_

knight of the realm, after all: he deserved better than this.  His surroundings left something to be desired.  Mouldering hay to sleep on, the type of kitchen swill he would not have inflicted on swine, appalling company, and not even a bucket to shit in – it was enough to make a man feel like an animal.

Guy had been an animal, at Grimstone.  Or half an animal, at least: a badly cured wolfskin and a horde of half-mad Welshmen had not made him forget entirely that he was human – but battered pride and betrayal and a head full of thoughts as jagged and discordant as broken pottery had not done much to remind him of that, either.  Now he wondered what in blazes he had been thinking, and cursed Robin Hood with a whole and hating heart.  It was his fault that Gisburne was here; if that filthy wolfshead had not stolen the grain in the first place, Brewer would never have threatened de Rainault, and de Rainault would never have thrown him – almost literally, as it turned out – to the wolves.

Raging had helped, to start with.  It had made Guy feel more himself, given him some outlet for the howling tangle of emotions he had locked inside.  It had not swayed the guards, though.  They had responded with blows and curses, which had been bad, and later with derision and laughter, which had been far worse.  When it became clear to Guy that threats and outrage would not work, he had tried to be reasonable, sweetly rational, calm.  This, he told the guards, was all a mistake, most surely, and as soon as de Rainault came to his senses or the king heard of this injustice, he would be released, and then he would favour any man who helped him and hunt down any who did not.  The guards listened and nodded – and did nothing.  Guy had even asked that he be given provisions to write a message, with some vague and desperate idea that Abbot Hugo might ransom him, in view of his past service.  They had let him write, but nothing had come of it.  Gisburne wondered if they had even bothered to find a courier.  He was not sure what was worse: the idea that they had not, or the idea that they had, and that Hugo was as happy as his brother the Sheriff to let him hang.

After that, he had been reduced to begging.  He pleaded with whoever would listen, made wild promises of coin, of wealth he didn’t have, of eternal and undying gratitude and a seat in Heaven amongst the saints.  His estates were gone, of course, claimed by the king – a run down manor and a handful of weed-choked fields held in fiefdom to the Crown, they had never amounted to much – but he promised them too, and the title that went with them.  He offered up his service, his pride, even, God help him, his body, if they would only let him walk free.

He did not want to die.

Gisburne was not a coward, but the thought of death terrified him.  Or, more accurately, the thought of what came after.  Dying was easy, after all: any fool could die.  And pain could be endured.  But after the dying, if the Church was right, there would come a judgement, and Guy knew without question that he would be found wanting.  How could he not be, with the stains on his soul?  His father’s sin, his mother’s lies, his own defilement and perversity

( _use me hard make me hurt_ )

 and ugly, debased needs … how could a loving God, a pure God, ever look on any of that and forgive?

They did not let him walk free.  And then, from cruelty or misguided care, one of the guards had told him that Brewer had had word from the king, telling him to deal with his prisoner in any way he saw fit, and Guy stopped doing anything at all.  He did not rage, or beg, or bargain.  He found a corner, set his face to the wall, and waited for the end.

He missed the sky, he found.  That was odd.  He had never much noticed the sky in his other life, when he had been free.  Now, though, he’d have given his last scrap of dignity for a glimpse of blue shot through with the wisps of cloud the peasants called mare’s tails, and perhaps a bird winging across it.  A falcon, if he was lucky.  Guy had always liked falcons.

He would hang or face the axe, and no one would care.  Certainly no one would lift a finger to stop it.  And he would die as he had lived: brutish and brutal, unloved and unwanted, and all because he had tried to live the lie he’d been raised to, and to do what duty demanded.  But he would die under the open sky at least, and with his head up.  That was the last right thing he could do.

 

There was security in the peaceful round of Halstead’s days.  Marion found it restful.  She had had no such security in Sherwood, where she had never known from one day to the next where she would sleep, or when she might eat, or if she and all her friends would live to see the morrow’s dawn.  And then had come the day when one of them

_(Dying’s easy.  I’m asking you to live.)_

hadn’t, and her heart had been shattered along with his body, and she had never yet found all the pieces.  Her father had won her a pardon after that, and she had taken it though she had not really wanted it, because she hadn’t had the energy to fight.  Then another young man had come, all flash and shine and laughter, and an honesty that hurt her soul, and she had dared hope she might find a way to be whole again.  In the end, though, she had lacked the courage, and when he had come back from the dead with a hopeful smile and a willing heart, she had turned away and bolted her doors.

Now she lived behind them, and told herself she was content.  She slept warm in a bed and, by day, she tended her bees and worked in the herb-scented garden, sheltered by Halstead’s broad walls.  If her gaze sometimes lifted past those walls to the dark loom of the forest beyond, it meant nothing.  There was no bright splash of blond, and she had never seen anyone looking back.

He had tried to visit, twice.  She had refused to see him, telling the sisters to turn him away.  It was easier that way, for both of them.  The second time, he had sent back a message that had made no sense, claiming urgency, begging a favour.  She had ignored that too.  That had been a clumsy thing, as ploys went; it was almost disappointing.

“There you are, Marion.”  A tall, austere woman in a dark habit strode across the garden, avoiding the newly-hoed beds.  “A letter has come for you.”  She put a sealed square of rough parchment into Marion’s hands.  Looking at it, Marion felt a tightening in her midriff.  There was only one person who could have written this.  She turned her gaze swiftly back to the other woman. 

“Who delivered this, Sister?”

“I’m sorry, Marion, he didn’t give his name.”  The woman smiled, making her hard face look briefly softer.  “Only the letter, and thanks in advance for my bringing it to you.”

“Was he …”  Marion paused, thinking.  Who of Robin’s men would have left no message but what courtesy demanded?  “Was he dark?  With an odd accent?”  It had always surprised her that Nasir was willing to play the errand boy when Robin asked it of him: the man was as proud as Lucifer, otherwise.

“No,” the other woman said slowly.  “He was a local lad by his voice, young, with good teeth and a ready smile.  A pedlar, by the donkey he was leading.”

Well, that could have been anyone.  It would not have been the first time that Robin – Robert – had charmed some passing traveller into doing what he wanted.  Marion nodded and managed a smile.  “Thank you, Sister.”

What could Robin want from her now?

 

_Marion.  Of all the things I might ask of you, this is one you will not expect._

Marion smiled sadly at that, reading from his brief words how carefully he was trying to respect her decision.  She went on.

_I hope you will not refuse it, because a man’s life may be in the balance.  Not a good man, but one close to us all the same, and does not our Lord and Saviour teach us to forgive those who sin against us not seven times, but seventy times seven, and that whatsoever we do to the least of our brethren, so we do to Him?_

_I would ask that you send a missive to the House of my uncle of Scotland, to my cousin Henry FitzRoy.  Ask that he come south, to Newark.  Tell him that his cousin who climbed the keep at York has need of him, and of his discretion.  Tell him too that there is a horse in it for him, a grey he’s had his eye on for years._

_I would send to him myself, but having been disinherited reduces one’s influence, and I do not trust this to a bought courier.  I trust this to you, and to your good judgement._

_If you would aid me, hang a strip of white cloth from the tall elm at the west wall of the priory when the message is sent.  And know that whatever you decide, you are always in my heart._

_R._

That last line was written in a tight, cramped hand, as if added at the last moment, before the writer lost his courage or changed his mind.  A part of Marion acknowledged that, and wondered how long this would go on hurting.  The rest of her read the letter again and wondered what Robin was up to.

Then, quietly, she burned the letter and took out her writing box.  Scotland was a fair ride; a courier would have to make haste.

 

No one remarked when Marion’s wimple found its way into the high elm a day or so later, apparently taken there by a gust of wind that had disturbed nothing else.  After all, Marion’s past was a colourful enough thing for a missing wimple to be neither here nor there.

 

“I’m telling you, John, he’s up to something.”  Will took a healthy swig from the jar of mead John had offered and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “All the way to bloody Halstead, and all he does is sit in the fucking forest and stare at the walls.”

“Have a heart, Will.  He’s pining for Marion.  Any fool can see that.”  The big man took the mead jar back and set it aside before Will could finish it off.  He turned his attention back to the bowstring he was waxing, twisting the thin strands for strength.  “Probably just hoping for a sight of her, is all.” 

Will made a disparaging sound.  “That’s soft, that is.  If he wants t’see her, he’d do better to show some backbone and march up to the gates.  Or go over the walls.  S’only a bunch of women.  What’re they going to do?  Smack ‘im with their needlework?”

“He can’t do that, man!”  John seemed shocked by the thought.  “It’s a House of God, that!  Can’t just barge in.  It ain’t right.  They’re brides of Christ.”

“Yeah, well, Marion’s not, is she?” Will replied, with a sullen scowl.  She shouldn’t have left them, not if this was what came of it, with Robin sneaking about and moping around the priory and putting everyone at risk.  “She’s … well, she’s _Marion_.”

“She’s taken vows, Scarlet.”  John gave his friend a firm look, rolling up the finished bowstring and putting it in his pouch.  He started work on another, his thick fingers deft, trimming and knotting the nocking loops with the ease of long experience.  “It means something, does that.  She’s made her choice, and Robin and us’ll just have to deal with it.  Give him some time, that’s all.” 

“We don’t bloody _have_ time!”  Will thrust himself to his feet and reclaimed the mead jar.  He took another swallow, then shook the jar at John to emphasise his point.  “We’ve been here too long already, haven’t we?  We never stay so long in one place.  It’s too much sodding risk.  But Robin won’t shift, will he?  And why?  Because he’s got his head all tangled up with Marion leaving and he can’t think right no more.”  Another mouthful of mead, and Will said, “And I’ll tell you something else, shall I?  I don’t like how he’s been going off on his own so much.  Or he drags Naz off with him.  ’S’not safe.”

John chuckled.  “Robin’s a grown lad; he can look out for himself.  And if it’s safety you’re worried about, you won’t find no safer company than Naz.  Nothing gets past that one.”

“That’s not what I bloody meant.”  Will slumped back down by the stump where John sat, and scowled.  “He’s up to something, is all.  Keeping secrets.  And I don’t like it.”  He lifted the mead jar, then gave it a frustrated glare and flung it away.  “’S’empty.  Pass us another, would you, John?”

“There isn’t another,” the big man rumbled.  “That’s the last until we get back to Wickham.”

“See, this is what I mean.”  Will made a gesture of frustration, looking like he wanted something to hit.  Probably he did: Scarlet preferred problems he could fight to ones he had to think about.  “We’ve been here too long.”  The one-time soldier turned his narrow-eyed gaze about the camp.  “Where the bloody hell is everyone, anyway?”

“Tuck’s fishing.  Much is off to Duxton after new fletchings.  And Nasir … I don’t know.  Wandered off mid-morning.  Hasn’t been back.  Hunting, maybe.”

Will grunted.  “Take his bow with him?”

“Aye.”

“Hunting, then.”  Will seemed satisfied with that.  “Hope he has a bit o’ luck.  I don’t fancy fish tonight.”  For a moment he was quiet, but then he gave a sudden chuckle and nudged John in the thigh with his elbow.  “I’ll tell you what else – one o’ them women at Halstead’s got a job on her hands.  I’d swear it was a wimple hanging in that big elm.  Wouldn’t’ve thought that lot’d be much for climbing trees.”

John agreed, and suggested Will make himself useful by fetching some firewood; if either Tuck or Nasir had any luck at all, they would not want to be eating their quarry raw.  Will declined: he was, he had discovered, quite comfortable where he was.  He would have been more comfortable if there had still been some sodding mead left, but a man couldn’t have everything.

And he would have been more comfortable still if he had been able to work out what the bloody fuck was going on.

 

“Nasir.”

The Saracen looked up from the deer he was butchering and sat back on his haunches, blood to the elbows.  He swiped a hand over his brow, leaving a streak of red, and frowned.  Robin was standing above him, hands on hips, looking remarkably pleased with himself.  Nasir told himself not to smile back.  “What?”

“I need you to steal a camel for me.”

Nasir rolled his eyes and went back to butchering his deer.

 

Later that evening, Robin was more forthcoming.  Nasir had brought his kill back to camp and deposited it in John’s tender care, then gone to clean up.  Robin had followed him to the river and waited while the man washed.  By the time the Saracen had emerged, wet and shivering, from the water, Robin had a small fire going near the bank.

“Here.  Sit and warm up.”  He watched, bemused, as the man sank down gratefully, bare to the waist and shaking water out of his hair.  “Why do you do that so often anyway?  It must be freezing.”

“It is,” Nasir confirmed, snagging Robin’s set-aside cloak and slinging it about himself.  “But we are taught that cleanliness is half of faith.  And, too, where Allah the Compassionate has given us the gift of so much water, it would be ungrateful not to use it.”

Robin caught the gleam of humour in that last and surveyed himself with mock dismay.  “You must think us savages, sometimes.”

“Not savages.  Infidels.”  Nasir’s grin was quick and brief, but it made his eyes shine.  “Which explains a variety of wonders.”

“Infidel yourself,” Robin replied in a prim voice, then ruined the effect with a grin of his own.  “I’m going to bathe, then.  You tend the fire.”

The water was every bit as cold as he’d expected, stealing his breath and making him yelp.  He dealt with that with a flailing of limbs, splashing about with a vigour borne of self-preservation, and then hauled himself to the bank.  His clothes clung to his wet skin as he slid back into them, cursing at the chill air and at himself for not thinking of fetching a drying-cloth before jumping in the river.  Dusk was falling; the days were coming shorter as the year turned to winter.  It would be a hard winter too, with the grain harvest destroyed and so much livestock slaughtered by the Sons of Fenris.  And in the common cells at Newark, it would be bitter.

Nasir saw him coming and flung the cloak at him as he neared the fire.  “Here.  You will freeze.”  He had his shirt back on, damp from its rinse in the river.  Robin felt a peculiar pang at that, and couldn’t place it.  He tried to hand the cloak back.

“No, keep it.  I’m fine.  I was born to this, remember?  This is a fine balmy evening, where my people come from.”

“Then your people should have taught you better than to turn away warmth when it is offered.”

Nasir’s tone was mild, but Robin felt something flinch inside him all the same.  _Jesus God, Malik, don’t.  Don’t_.  He took the cloak without speaking and sat close by the other man, careful to keep his eyes on the flames. 

“It is no more than any friend might give you.”  Nasir did not move.  His eyes were on the flames too.  His voice was very quiet, almost offhand.  He might have been talking about the cloak.  Robin shivered, wrapped his arms about knees and tried to make himself sound normal.

“My thanks, then.”  He took a breath.  “ _Sadiqi_.  My friend.” 

He won a flicker of dark eyes in response, but all Nasir said was, “Your accent improves.”

“ _Shokrun_ ,” Robin offered, oddly relieved that Nasir had said nothing else, even though he could not have explained why.  His grin, white and wicked, was almost convincing in the shadows.  “Yours doesn’t.  It’s still perfectly exotic.  Quite fitting, for a camel thief.”

Nasir, whose blood was every bit as noble and a good deal older than Robin’s, and who would have cut out the tongue of any other man who challenged his honour so lightly, made a low sound under his breath that Robin knew for laughter.  “So then,” he said.  “Tell me, _sadiqi_ , about this camel.”

“Blond,” Robin said.  “Bad tempered.  Bullying.”  He shrugged.  “My brother.”

“He is not worthy of the name.”

“Even so.”

“And you are not like him.”  Emphatic, at once both fierce and gentle.  Robin felt a low warmth surge through him and smiled softly.  _Thank you, Malik.  Thank you_.

“So.  Gisburne.”  Nasir made an unflattering gesture.  “You want me to … steal him?”  The man sounded puzzled.  Robin chuckled.

“Not quite.  Not even free him, not really.  More … escort him.  See to it he stays far from us, and out of trouble.”  And then, when Nasir only looked at him, “Listen.  I’ve worked this out.  We can’t break him out of there.  It would be too dangerous for a start: Newark’s not our ground.  And Guy wouldn’t be pleased to see us, rescue or not.  Most likely, he’d raise the alarm himself, just for the satisfaction of knowing that we’d swing right after he does.”

Nasir could not argue with that: Gisburne could be painfully bloody-minded.  He nodded slowly.

“He needs ransoming.  He can’t pay, and neither can I.  The villagers are going to need all we can give them this winter, and I won’t take food from their mouths to set Gisburne free.”  Robin’s sudden smile was sharp and hard.  “If God was kind, we’d take Gisburne’s money from de Rainault’s personal coffers, but I doubt that my Lord Sheriff is going to be strolling through Sherwood strapped with money bags come dawn.  Our luck isn’t that good.”

Nasir snorted.  Maybe this young Frank did have some sense of irony after all.  Or perhaps it was simply natural justice.

“So,” Robin went on, edging closer to the fire as the night drew in, “I’ve decided to draw on my father’s resources.  Being an earl’s son – even a disinherited one – must be good for something.  He won’t turn me away, not after that mess with the king and my late, unlamented uncle.  After all, Guy is his father’s son too.  Even if neither of them know it.”

“That would be … fitting,” Nasir agreed.  If David of Huntingdon would not acknowledge his by-blows, he could at least pay towards their keep.  And towards his legitimate son’s peace of mind, which was, Nasir thought bluntly, more valuable than Gisburne’s sorry hide any day.

“Then we have the problem of securing his release.  I can hardly march into Newark myself and demand that Brewer hand Gisburne over, money or not.”  Robin cast Nasir a wry look to show how well he thought that might work.  “If I tried that, like as not I’d find myself sharing a cell with him, and I don’t think my welcome would be warm.  Though at least my stay would be short – Brewer would probably have me at the block by dawn.”

“Hsst!”  Nasir made a sharp negating motion with one hand, his eyes hard glints in the firelight.  “ _Lasamahallah!_   Do not say such things.”

The intensity of his tone made Robin blink.  Unthinking, he put his hand on Nasir’s wrist, closing his fingers tight.  The man’s skin was warm from the fire, his pulse ticking steadily under Robin’s touch.  “Malik.  It won’t happen.  I’m not that great a fool.”

“ _Inshallah_ , you are not.”  Nasir glanced once at the hand that clasped his wrist, seemingly impassive, but he did not move away.  “You will use an agent?”

“Yes.”  Robin let his hand drop, suddenly uncomfortable at the feel of this man’s heartbeat in his palm.  “My cousin Harry.  He’s the natural son of my uncle of Scotland, and a knight, and his father’s recently invested him with decent estates near Stirling.”  With an effort, Robin made his tone light, crisp.  “If he were to ride into Newark with a ransom for a fellow knight of the realm, Brewer might huff and grind his teeth, but he’d be reasonable.  He’d have to be.”

“Your cousin would do this thing?”

“Oh yes, I think so.  He owes me three or four rather large favours, mostly to do with pretty girls and jealous husbands.”  Robin’s smile now was genuine, and more than a little rakish.  Nasir’s brows went up: Franks really were brash creatures. 

“I’ve had word sent to Harry to come south to Newark.  I want you to meet him there.  It has to be you; I can’t do this myself lest someone ask why Huntingdon’s disgraced son is interested in the fate of a man like Gisburne.  And I can’t ask the others, even if they knew.  John wouldn’t stand for it, Much saw the man kill his father, for pity’s sake, and as for Will …”  He rolled his eyes, meaningfully.  “Will would kill him as soon as look at him.  It has to be you: you’re the only one with the skill to manage him and the discipline not to just strike him dead.  So I’ll organise the writs for Gisburne’s ransom, and you’ll see that Harry gets them.”  Robin grimaced, realising something.  “You might have to play the servant’s part if you go with Harry into Newark.  I’m sorry for that, but there’s no other way you’ll not draw attention.”

Nasir glanced at him slowly and shrugged with the barest twitch of one shoulder.  “I have been worse things than a servant in this land.” 

To anyone else, Nasir’s voice would have sounded utterly indifferent, but Robin caught the jagged edge under the smooth surface.  He had met Simon de Belleme once, at Huntingdon, when the baron had been, very briefly, his father’s guest.  He remembered a cold, unnaturally intent man with a fixed stare and hot, dead eyes.  To have been in the great hall with him for half an evening had been discomforting enough; Robin did not like to think what it would have been like to belong to the man, like a horse or a hawk or the dagger he kept tucked in his belt.  The idea of that made Robin’s jaw clench in anger, and a part of him marvelled that it was possible to so hate a man with whom he had barely exchanged three words.  But there were some creatures in the world that were not made to be caged, and Nasir was one of them.

“I know you have,” he said, low and soft.  “I’m sorry.”

“It is not for you to apologise.”  Nasir lifted the fingers of his right hand in a small, dismissive flick, but nothing else moved.  “It is done.  And he, _alhamdulillah_ , is dead.”

“May he never find rest.”

Nasir, who privately hoped that Belleme would find in the black fires of _Jahannam_ exactly what he deserved, only nodded and stirred the fire with a stick, so that sparks rose like fleeting stars, striving for the sky.  There were things he preferred not to talk about.  “So.  I am to find your cousin, and to play the servant in the city.  And then?”

“He will give Brewer the writs in return for Gisburne’s release.”

“And then?”

“You will take Gisburne out of the city.”

“And then?”

Clearly Nasir did not believe he’d thought this through.  Robin supposed the man had a point.  He shrugged.  “There are options.  Gisburne might be a fool, but surely even he can’t believe that his life is worth anything if he stays in England.  He has to go somewhere beyond Lackland’s reach if he’s any chance of starting again.  Normandy, perhaps, since the king’s made such a botch of keeping it under his sway, or France.”  Robin gave a short, wicked laugh.  “Or even further.  How do you think Gisburne would fare in Outremer, say?”

At first Nasir did not answer, though his eyes slid from Robin’s face to the lowering flames of their small fire and back again.  After a moment, he said, “Well enough.  He is a fighter, and there is always a place for fighting men.  He would find others of his kind there.”  And then, almost an afterthought, “You could arrange passage?”

 _Sweet God_.  Robin drew a breath.  Why hadn’t he thought of that before he spoke?  He’d meant it for a joke when he’d suggested Outremer, though Nasir was right: a fighting man could find a decent sponsor there, and earn himself both fame and fortune.  He answered honestly, though it pained him.

“For him, I could, probably.  For you … it would be difficult, Malik, but I could try.  Do you wish it?”

Another silence answered that.  Robin let it grow, waiting, watching Nasir very closely in the darkness.  At last the man stirred.

Say no, Malik, my friend, say no.  Say no.

“Yes.”  Softer even than a whisper, the word fell like a stone.  Robin felt as if he’d swallowed rocks.  He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the words.  Instead, Nasir spoke again.

“Yes.  But not now.  Not yet.”

It was selfish, perhaps, to feel such relief.  Robin didn’t care.  The tightness in his gut loosened, as did his tongue.  “I’m glad.  I’d be sorry to lose you.”

“And I would be sorry to go, in some ways.”  Nasir gave the faintest smile, flicking his eyes towards Robin and letting them linger.  They seemed to glow, reflecting the flames, like embers in the dark.  “There are some things about this land that I would miss.  But that other is my home, and one day I will return.  Right now, though, I suspect it would mean my death.”

“Sinan?”

“If he still lives.  And even if he does not, there are others who will not forgive.”  Nasir shrugged.  “Best to stay, for now.  I might live longer this way.” 

That, Robin realised, was a joke.  He chuckled, very quietly.  “If one of my outlandish plans doesn’t kill you first, you mean.”

Nasir inclined his head.  “I mean.”  He sounded as if he were laughing too, in that silent way he had.

Robin considered that for a moment.  “Then I will try to keep you safe.  I won’t have you missing your home and blaming me.”

Those words had a twist in them.  Nasir eyed them warily, then shifted one hand in an odd yielding motion.  “Rob, there is no blame where the choice is freely made.”

 “Is it free?” Robin wanted to know.  “You have duties there, I know: estates to see to, obligations to family.  I understand that; I was raised to the same thing.  You’d go back to that?”

“Yes,” Nasir said, as if it were obvious.

“Why?”

Nasir tipped his head, bemused.  “You are about to move mountains for a man you do not even like, simply because his blood is your blood, and you ask me why?”  His shoulders hitched in that familiar shrug that he used to say so much.  “Blood is strong, Rob.  It calls, and a man cannot deny who he is.”

“Maybe not,” Robin allowed, “but he can change who he is.”  He sounded as if he believed it.  Nasir, who had his doubts when it came to that, only glanced sidelong at his friend and away.  Robin frowned.  “Is that what it is, then?  Duty, obligation, faith, blood?  You’d go back for that?”

“For that, yes.  And for other things.”  Nasir regarded the dark sky through the treetops thoughtfully.  “Mostly for other things.”

“For what, then?”

“For the desert.  For the cities.  For words that flow like oil from a jar and do not make my head ache in the choosing of them.  For the _muezzin’s_ call above the dusty streets.  For the sky burned almost white by the sun, and gardens of oranges and limes and olives.  For the colours.”  He would have said more, tried to explain the simple, brutal honesty of men killing each other in the sands over water they could step across, and the honour and courtesy that kept them civilised even so, but some words were too difficult for his friend to understand.  Even now, Robin was looking at him as if he’d said something strange.

“Colours?”  Robin was baffled.  “What do you mean, ‘colours’?”

Nasir did his best.  “The light.  Here, it is all green and gold in the summer, grey and green in the winter.  Soft, cool.  There, it is … whiter.  Wider.  Sharper.  It makes the colours shine pure, like gems.”

It sounded beautiful.  Robin spoke without thinking.  “I should like to see that.”

“I should be glad to show you.”  Another strange flickering gesture went with that, at once wistful and promising.  “Someday.  _Inshallah_.”

“ _Inshallah_.  But first, there’s Gisburne to deal with.”

“And you wish for me to steal a camel and take it to France.”  Very dry, and gently mocking.

“No, idiot.”  Robin gave the other man a laughing tap on the shoulder.  “Just to the nearest port.  Or north, across the border into Scotland.  Maybe he could take up service with my uncle, and keep it all in the family.”

“Truly.”  Nasir’s raised eyebrow was sardonic.  “And if he does not wish to go?”

“Convince him.”  Said simply and without pause.  “But keep him alive.  If you can.”

“If I can.”

“And in the meantime, I say we get back to camp before the others finish off supper without us.  That venison should be about ready.”  He paused, glanced thoughtfully at the other man as if something had just occurred to him.  “Nasir.  You have friends amongst the Jews of Lincoln, don’t you?  Money-lenders?”

“I do,” Nasir said cautiously.  “The de Talmonts.  But I cannot speak for them.”

“No matter.”  Robin still had that considering look in his eyes.  “I can make arrangements.”

“You said the money would come from your father.”

“It will, but it can’t be seen to.  I need to muddy the waters a little.”  Robin flashed that grin again, bright and bold.  “Who says we Franks lack for subtlety?”

“You Franks lack for many things.  But you, _sadiqi_ , are not an ordinary Frank.”  Nasir smiled quietly, and rose to stamp out the fire and shrug into his half-dry jerkin.  “Sometimes, you are almost Arab.”

“My father would be …” Robin shook his head, letting his words trail off as Nasir hauled him to his feet.

“What?  Appalled?”

“No,” Robin said truthfully, thinking of his father’s tales of the Holy Land and the people he had known there.  He clapped one hand to Nasir’s shoulder, and met the shine of those dark eyes.  “No.  Not at all.”

 

Henry FitzRoy had considerable time to think on the ride south.  He had received his cousin’s message, courtesy of a road-weary courier and a decidedly feminine hand.  Robert, it seemed, had got himself into some kind of trouble – which was no surprise at all given that he’d taken to gallivanting about in the forest, playing at outlaws with a bunch of runaway serfs.  Robert always had been one for strange flights of fancy.  It was only a shame that he had so little care for his father’s reputation.

If it were not for the fact that the last tourney of the season had been delayed, Henry would have ignored Robert’s request … or, at least, sent back his carefully-worded regrets.  It was not that he disliked his cousin; they had, in fact, got on famously well in their youth, leading each other astray in the ways most suitable to the noble born, drinking their way into trouble and talking their way out.  Robert had been good at that, particularly the talking; his clever tongue and quick mind had saved his cousin’s fat from the fire more than once, when Henry’s discretion had failed him.  But there was also the family’s honour to think of, and Robert had made himself rather the black sheep.  The only son of the Earl of Huntingdon, heir to vast estates and nephew to the Scots king, and he’d given it all up for a life of simple banditry.  Adventure was one thing, and well and good in its place (and Henry understood that: why else would he seek out tourney after tourney when the prize purse was so pitifully meagre?), but in turning against the King’s peace, Robert had taken things a step too far.  Which was like Robert, when he thought about it.  It had always been Robert’s idea to visit that one last alehouse or take that final spin of the dice, but somehow it had always been Henry

(Come on, Harry! Faint heart never won a fair maiden!)

who had come out carrying the consequences.

Henry was damned if he’d bear the consequences for this latest escapade too, no matter what it might be.  He’d grown up since his days of carousing with Rob and letting his cousin have his way; he’d learned to see trouble coming, now.  He would stop in Newark and find out what game it was that Robert was playing, but that didn’t mean that he’d willingly be a pawn in it.  He’d have to see what it was, first.  He did wish that his cousin could have been a little more forthcoming, though.  It would have been nice to know exactly what he was getting himself into.

 

There was, in Will’s considered opinion, only so much sneaking about that a man could be expected to put up with.  Will had reached his limit days ago.  Robin had been to the priory again, though only to the guest house, and couriers had come and gone along the roads towards both Huntingdon and Lincoln.  Nasir was his normal inscrutable self: infuriatingly calm and as receptive to questions as a stone.  Tuck seemed uneasy, though the fat sod wouldn’t speak up as to why.  “It’s just a feeling,” was all he’d say, for what little use that was.  As for John and Much, well … John wouldn’t question Robin if the man told him the sky was green, and Much never noticed anything beyond his own bootstraps. 

Will, though, had not been a soldier for nothing.  He could tell when his officers were on the move, and he had learned the hard way that when the men in the fancy cloaks were up to something, it usually wasn’t good news for the rank and file.  And when it came to fancy cloaks, Will knew who to watch.  Robin might dress no better than anyone else now, but he had been an earl’s son in his other life, and Nasir … well, no one actually knew exactly what Nasir was (though Will had an inkling that Robin might have a better idea than most; at least they bloody _talked_ ), but Will doubted that anyone could be as autocratic as the Saracen on a bad day and not lay claim to noble blood somewhere along the line.  Probably he was second cousin to Saladin himself, or some such thing.  In any case, whatever was going on, those two were at the heart of it.

And then Nasir had left.

The Saracen had spoken briefly to Robin and taken a packet from him: a sheaf of papers, some wound with the coloured cords of their seals.  Nasir had flicked critically through the papers, frowning as if he knew exactly what he was looking at (and so he probably did, Will allowed: the man was a veritable basket of tricks when it came to knowing things no normal person would know), and then he had given Robin one of those courtly-proper bows of his and turned on his heel and was gone.

He hadn’t just wandered off like he usually did, stealing an hour or so to himself to see to the weird foreign rituals he observed – and Will still firmly maintained that any religion that denied a man a decent mug of ale was cruel and unusual at best – before coming back to the camp to poke at the fire and glower at the best of Will’s jokes.  No, this was a proper leave-taking that took him out of Sherwood altogether.

Will knew that, because Will gave it half a day and then followed.

Because sometimes the only way to find out what the bloody fuck was going on was to jump in with both boots and a grin.

 

It did not take Robin long to notice that Will was missing.  The man had been gone for half a day, which was not terribly unusual, but when he did not return to camp for supper, Robin knew that something was wrong.  He had never yet known Will to miss a meal, especially one he did not have to prepare himself. 

“Much?” he asked.  “John?  Have either of you seen Will?”

“Aye,” John rumbled, helping himself to a chunk of dark flatbread.  “Didn’t he tell you?  He’s gone off for a bit.”

“Off where?”

“To Lichfield, he told me.  To visit that brother of his.”

“Amos?”  Robin frowned.  “He doesn’t even like Amos.”

“Likes his ale, though, don’t he?” Much pointed out, picking bones out of his roasted trout and flicking them into the fire.  “And we’ve run out of mead.”

“And speaking of the dearly missed,” Tuck chimed in, “where’s Nasir got to?  Don’t tell me he’s gone to visit Scarlet’s brother too.”

“Naz in an alehouse?”  John scoffed.  “Not likely.  He wouldn’t be caught dead.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that alehouse,” Robin grimaced.  “Not again.  Once was enough for me.  I don’t mind rough company, but that place …”  He gave an eloquent shudder.  “At least Sherwood is clean.”

“Well, where is ’e then?” Much asked.  “Nasir, not Will.”

“Nasir’s taking care of something for me,” Robin said, deliberately vague.  “Family business.”

Tuck narrowed his eyes, then shrugged with his whole body.  “Well then,” he said, “that’s him and Will both.  Seeing to family business, I mean.”

Robin heard what the rotund friar was saying without words and repressed a sigh.  Of course Will had gone after Nasir; what else would he have done?  Damn the man for being so bloody-minded, for never knowing when to leave a thing well enough alone.  With any luck, though, he’d miss Nasir’s trail and end up chasing himself in circles.  Failing that – well, Nasir was a resourceful one.  If anyone could manage Will, it would be him.

Robin hoped rather fervently that that was true.  Gisburne’s life depended on it.

 

“God’s Wounds, Rob doesn’t ask for much, does he?”  Henry FitzRoy glared at the missive in his hand, then turned disbelieving eyes on the man who had delivered it.  In point of fact, Henry wasn’t sure which was more startling: Robert’s request, or the Saracen warrior who had appeared out of nowhere and addressed him in the road by name, in good, if accented, English, and with a courtesy that would not have been out of place in the king’s own great hall.  “Secure a release for this Gisburne fellow, find a pair of horses and equip them for travel …  Does he believe I’ll do whatever he wants?”

The Saracen shrugged, as if he didn’t care.  The man had the most unflinching gaze FitzRoy had ever seen.  It really was quite discomforting.  “He believes that you will do this.  He says it is a debt owed.  A matter of honour concerning Sir Giles of York.”

“Sir Gi … oh.”  Henry flushed, remembering.  “Yes, well.  Can’t blame a man for trying.  She was alarmingly pretty.  Even Rob said so.” 

If that had been meant as a joke, it fell short.  The Saracen only looked at him, eyes like jet in an impassive face.  Henry wished that Robert could have found another servant to deliver his message: this one was too intimidating by half.  A short way off, his squires, a good pair of lads but green as grass, watched wide-eyed, as if they expected a Holy Crusade to break out on the spot.  Henry sighed and waved his hand in frustration, making his horse jerk its head and snort.  “All right. Yes, I’ll do it.  Brewer’s a nasty piece of work in any case; it wouldn’t hurt to bring him down a notch or two.  But this is going to cost, and it won’t be coming out of my purse.”

“No.”  The Saracen indicated the writ in Henry’s hand with a flicker of those intense eyes.  “It is dealt with.”

“It is?”  Henry snapped the seal on the writ, furrowing his brow as he fumbled his way through the words.  Nasir waited patiently, watching the man’s lips move as he read.  “Wait.  To be paid by Aaron de Talmont of Lincoln?  Who is this de Talmont?”

Nasir hid a smile.  Oh yes, Robin had been subtle – and if he’d wanted irony, he had it now by the cart-load.  The de Talmont family, providing the funds for Gisburne’s ransom: that was enough to make a stone laugh.  The fact that the money had only rested in Aaron’s coffers on its journey from the Earl of Huntingdon to Brewer’s treasury was neither here nor there.  To FitzRoy, Nasir said nothing at all.  It was enough that the man had the writ and knew where to deliver it; he did not need to know the rest.

FitzRoy waited a moment, but the Saracen did not answer.  Probably he didn’t know; the man was only a servant, after all, even if he was armed to the back teeth (Henry had counted six blades, and those were only the ones he could see) and impressively regal in bearing.  They really were a remarkable people, these Saracens; FitzRoy wondered how much Robert had paid for this one.  Surely he hadn’t found the man wandering wild in the woods?  At last, Henry said, “Well, no matter.  If your master didn’t tell you …”

“Robert is not my master.”

“…then you – what?”

“Robert.  He is not my master.”  Those eyes were almost keen enough to cut, hard and cool and quite uncompromising.  “He is my friend.  My friend who has asked a favour of me, that I have agreed to grant.  I call no man ‘master’.  Understand that, my lord FitzRoy.”

Henry said, “I’m sorry.”  Nasir blinked in surprise; the last thing he had expected was an apology from this feckless Frankish noble.  Yet, the man went on, seeming sincere, with a conciliatory smile.  “I assumed; it was wrong of me.  I didn’t mean to cause offence.”

Well, perhaps charm ran in the blood in Robin’s family.  Nasir nodded, dipping his head in half a bow.  “No offence.  A misunderstanding, no more.”

“Quite.”  FitzRoy looked unsure – he knew Robert had gone native and set much of his good upbringing aside in doing so, but he’d have thought that fostering friendships with Saracens was a step too far.  Then again, this was Rob, after all.  Rob would make friends with a street beggar, given half a chance.  He gave a mental shrug.  “Well, we’d best get on with this, then.”

Tucking the writ into his pouch, Henry swung back onto his horse and wondered, not for the first time, what Robert was getting him into.  His cousin always had been a distracting influence.

Just ask Sir Giles of York.

 

Nasir bloody Malik bloody Kamal, Will thought with a scowl, did not make things easy.  It had taken two days to find him, marching through the night and sleeping in snatches.  The Saracen was making no special effort to elude him, but even so the man moved like a bloody shadow, leaving next to no sign, seeming to melt away between one step and the next, and appearing again when he damned well pleased.  It was luck as much as woodcraft that had led Will to his quarry, in the end.  If he had turned left rather than right when he’d come to that overgrown mill race and then hit the Fosseway, he’d still be wandering about in circles.

As it was, he’d caught up with Nasir in time to see the man speaking with some puffed up Norman windbag with an expensive-looking horse and a pair of smooth-cheeked squires.  Will watched in hiding as Nasir handed over the sealed missives Robin had given him.  The knight – he had to be a knight, what with the horse and the squires and the cocksure way he dealt with being stopped in the road by an armed man – had frowned and fussed, and then Nasir had said something that had made the knight blink and look abashed, as if he’d just been clipped around the ears.  Will grinned, wondering what that had been about.  Nasir might not say much, but when he did speak up, he could be bloody scathing, and sharply to the point.  Will had cause to know that; the Saracen was not a man who pulled punches, metaphorically or otherwise.

When they left, all of them together, Will waited a short while and followed.  He watched them go into Newark, and decided that was no bad thing.  At least in Newark, he’d be able to get a decent mug of ale.

 

There was a dead man in the far corner of the cell.  Guy had wondered how long he would last when they had brought him in: the man had been coughing and shivering, hectic with fever.  It had occurred to Guy that if he was unlucky, the man’s pestilence might spread and he himself might die, coughing his lungs out in a hole in the ground, but it was hard to care.  Guy was a dead man already, after all.  Only his body did not know it yet.

He hoped they would drag the corpse out before it started to stink.  He had become used to the fetid stench of the cells – unwashed bodies, rotting straw, waste, filth and despair – but he could have done without that as well.  A part of him could not help but recall the tale of Maude de Braose, whispered about Nottingham in the days before everything had gone wrong: imprisoned by the king and left to starve, she had died mad and raving, gnawing like a rat on the body of her dead son.  Guy glanced at the sadly huddled body in the corner and shuddered.  It had not yet come to that, at least.

Guy had long since given up counting the days.  He knew that he had been here some time; it had grown colder, and the guards were grumbling about the chance of early snow.  He knew, too, that no one cared enough to speak up for him, or even remember where he was.  He wondered distantly what de Rainault was up to, imagining the man sprawling in his chair in front of the wide hearth in Nottingham Castle’s great hall, quaffing heated wine and sniping at the servants.  De Rainault had always been a demanding lord, with his sharp tongue and his sharper temper and his fickle, taunting favour, but Guy had never expected this from him.  The man had delighted in treating Gisburne poorly, making him jump for scraps like a dog at table, offering security with one hand and deceit with the other, but Guy had never believed he would pay for the man’s duplicity with his life.  Gisburne did not know what pained him more: that the sheriff had

(On your knees, Gisburne)

used him so badly, or that Guy himself had let him.  If God were just, he thought bitterly, de Rainault would choke.

He wondered how much longer Brewer would make him wait.  He had always hated waiting.  During his time in France, campaigning alongside Sir Geoffrey and, later, Bertrand de Nevilles, it had always been the waiting that unnerved him.  Battle he could face, even enjoy – an enemy to fight, a sword to swing, a decent horse under him.  There was power in that, a sense of action, of choosing one’s own destiny.  There was no power in waiting.  Waiting gave a man nothing but time to think, and Gisburne took no comfort in that.

There was a familiar scraping beyond the cell door, the sound of metal clanking and the heavy, stubborn bolt being drawn back.  Guy lifted his head, but did not bother getting to his feet.  He’d given up rushing the door when the guards opened it, either to toss some new wretch in or to drag someone else out; all it had ever gained him was an impressive series of beatings.  But he still made sure that his head was up when the guards came in and that he met their eyes as was fitting for a man of rank, rather than shrinking away into the dark like a frightened animal.  He had that much dignity left, at least.

“You.  Gisburgh.  Come on.”

“Gisburne.”  Guy stayed where he was.  “Why?”

“What d’you bloody mean, why?  ’Cos I fucking told you, that’s why.”  The man took two paces into the cell, looking like he would kick Gisburne to his feet if he didn’t get up himself, and rather enjoy doing so.  Guy hauled himself to his full height and glared.  In Nottingham, that would have been enough to make a man like this pale and mumble and stare at the ground.  Now, it served only to make the guardsman spit and grab him by the collar of his soiled and ragged tunic and thrust him roughly towards the door.  “Get out there, you miserable turd.  Move!”

Guy had long ago decided that when it came to his death, he would go to it with what pride he could muster.  He would not be dragged out like some animal for slaughter.  He stumbled at the man’s shove, righted himself and squared his shoulders.  Then, with a single scathing glance at the guardsman, he stepped forward into the corridor, squinting in the light of the torches.

The belligerent guardsman poked him hard in the back with the short club he carried.  “Not that way, scum.  This.  Cap’n wants a word, he does.”

“I’m a titled knight,” Gisburne grated through a clenched jaw, ignoring the bolt of pain that jolted through his spine from the man’s blow.  “And a noble son of Normandy.  You’ll address me as ‘Sir Guy’ or ‘my lord’.  Is that clear?”

“Shut up, scum.”  This time the club struck him higher, clipping him behind the ear and making sparks scatter behind his eyes.  Guy grunted, caught himself against the wall and willed his knees not to buckle.  The guard made a harsh, short sound that could have been a laugh and bared ugly, worn teeth.  “You’re a prisoner of the King’s fucking Constable, and I’ll call you what I bloody well like.  Now bloody move!”

Guy moved, and imagined beating the man’s face to a bloody pulp and watching those ugly teeth scatter across the floor.  The idea was strangely satisfying; it made him briefly happy.

 

The Captain of the Guard was a better specimen than the men he commanded.  He had better teeth for a start, white and even in a competent, careful face.  He had better manners as well: crisp and to the point.

“Sir Guy.  You’ve been reprieved.  Your pardon’s been paid for. You’re to be released into the care of Sir Henry FitzRoy of Scots.”  The man’s tone was utterly impartial, as if he wasn’t handing Gisburne his life back.  “My lord Brewer wants you gone by nightfall, and he says that if he finds you in his shire territories again, he’ll not be so lenient a second time.  Is that understood?”

Guy’s stunned mind struggled for some semblance of comprehension.  He stared at the man, fumbling to make sense of what he had just been told.  “FitzRoy?  But … I’ve never … who …?”

“Sir Henry FitzRoy.  Of Scots.”  A new voice, and Guy turned to face a well- dressed young man who looked at him with distaste, then flicked his gaze over Gisburne’s shoulder to the captain.  “All is in order, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Does he have any … effects?”

“No, my lord.  His horse and kit were forfeit to the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, to cover certain debts.”

 _Fury_.  Guy felt a lurch in his gut and swung back on the captain.  Moving so swiftly made his head, still foggy from the guard’s club, pound horribly.  “What?  No, that’s not …”

“Not my doing, Sir Guy.”  The man held up a hand, unmoved.  “Have it out with de Rainault, if it matters.”  His tone suggested quite plainly that he did not think that would be a wise idea, but that he didn’t care either way.  Guy fought down the urge to hit something.  The loss of his lands, such as they were, was one thing, but this … God’s Blood, this was worse.  He valued that horse, and de Rainault knew it.  This was personal.

“But my _horse_ …”

“You’ll be provided with a horse, Sir Guy.  It’s been arranged.”  The foppish young man was pulling absently at his gloves, as if impatient to be off.  “I’d let it go, if I were you.  You’re not really in a position to argue.  My lord Constable has given you only so long to be on your way.  Best leave before he changes his mind, wouldn’t you say?”

Guy stared again, beyond flustered.  “Who _are_ you?”

“Sir Henry FitzRoy,” the man repeated with exaggerated patience.  “Really, man, pay attention.  Are you simple or merely deaf?”  And then, turning on his heel in a way that made his short mantle flare out quite dashingly behind him, he said, “Well, come on then, if you want to live.”

Guy, who wanted very much to live, went.

 

It had not been terribly difficult to pass as FitzRoy’s servant.  All Nasir had actually had to do was tend the horses when the knight and his squires stopped at the small local livery.  Nasir, who quite liked horses, did not mind that at all, though these clumsy Frankish beasts were nothing compared to the fine swift horses he had known in his homeland: elegant, spirited creatures that could race the very wind.  He murmured to the animals in Arabic as he went about his task, and nodded imperceptibly when FitzRoy haggled the livery master down to within the limits of reason over two middling fair nags, their tack thrown in.  The horses, he could tell at a glance, were unremarkable but sound, and FitzRoy, who was clearly not the fool he looked, was not willing to pay any more than he had to.

Now Nasir sat in the sun in the livery yard and waited.  He considered bringing out his whetstone and seeing to his swords, just to give his hands something to do, but FitzRoy’s squires were nervous enough with him just sitting there; if he drew steel, even only to sharpen it, they would probably faint with fright.  Franks, Nasir thought, far from the first time, were strange creatures.  He wondered what kind of stories these boys had heard that had them watching him like they expected him to grow horns and start shooting fire from his eyes.  It was ridiculous, really.  He was not even trying to be menacing.

The lads were huddled together on the other side of the yard, near the horse trough and a rain barrel full of water.  Nasir could hear them talking softly to each other in the _langue d’oil_ patois of the Norman people.  It was not a language he spoke himself, beyond a few words learnt in the course of his travels.  His French was a little better, enough to exchange basic courtesies, secure bed and board, or question a man’s parentage, but it was hardly conversational.  He listened idly, picking out words here and there, playing with them in his mind to work out their best fit.  He had established that the tall youth was named Jerome and that the solid young lad with the swathe of dark hair that kept falling over his eyes was called Gilbert and that he himself was either a demon or a devil worshipper by the time FitzRoy reappeared.

To Nasir’s surprise, the man cast a hard look at his squires and said, in a clipped, curt voice, “He’s no such thing, you fools.  He worships the same God you do.  He just calls Him by a different name.”  And then, to Nasir, “My apologies for their lack of manners.  They should know better.”

“They are young.”  Nasir shrugged, got to his feet with a faint smile.  His opinion of Rob’s cousin was improving all the time.  “They will learn, with you to teach them.”

“Now you flatter me.”

“Truth is not flattery.”

“FitzRoy, I don’t understand …  You!  Wolfshead!”

Nasir sighed, did not bother to turn to the familiar, rough voice.  He nodded to Henry instead.  “So.  You found Gisburne.”

“Yes.”  FitzRoy glanced back over his shoulder at the man, then raised an eyebrow at Nasir.  “You don’t sound pleased.”

Nasir only raised an eyebrow right back and let FitzRoy make of that what he would.  The man paused, then nodded in understanding.  “Yes, well.  You have my sympathy.”

“Wolfshead!”  Gisburne was closer now.  Nasir, finally deigning to look at him, was surprised at his ill-used appearance.  The voice was the same, and the cold, pale glitter of his eyes, but the rest of him was ragged, worn thin.  He was filthy for a start, thick with grime, his fair hair grown long, matted and unkempt.  His jaw, jutting even now in that familiar, assertive way, was bearded from neglect, and his tunic little better than a rag.  His face was a map of old bruises, some yellowing-faint, some still purple under the dirt, and his cheeks were hollow, sunken.  He moved as if he were hurt and trying to hide it, and he looked half starved, like a wolf after a lean winter.  If he had been any other man, Nasir might even have felt sorry for him.

“Sir Guy.”  FitzRoy turned as Gisburne approached, his tone effortlessly commanding.  “Your freedom has been paid for, and my business here is done.  This man …”

“This outlaw!”

“… is here to escort you to safety,” Henry went on, over-riding Gisburne’s angry interruption.  He smiled, not pleasantly.  “I don’t think you’re to be given a choice in the matter, for what it’s worth.”

Guy glared.  “I’m not going anywhere with that … that … filthy Saracen!”

Nasir’s brows went up, sardonically amused.  He glanced down at himself, spread clean hands and looked pointedly at the young knight in his layers of muck.  “Filthy?” he said.  “I?”

“As I said, Gisburne, I don’t think you’ve much choice.”  Henry started back to the stables, gesturing at his squires to follow.  “We’ll take you out of the city, and, after that, I’d advise you to forget you ever heard my name.”

“You don’t understand,” Gisburne insisted.  “This man is a wolfshead!  A dangerous outlaw!  He’s one of Robin Hood’s men!”

“Of course he is,” FitzRoy said, unconcerned.  “I really don’t care, Gisburne.  You’re being given a second chance, man.  I suggest you stop bleating like a tethered goat and take it.”  The tall squire, Jerome, brought out the horses.  FitzRoy leaned on the yard fence to wait.  Gisburne tried again.

“You can’t send me off with this … this savage!  The man’s a killer, a faithless barbarian …”

“He is?”  FitzRoy demanded suddenly, looking at Guy as if the man was something unpleasant he’d just scraped off the sole of his boot.  “Or you are?  Because I’ve spent a little time in both your company, and he at least understands common courtesy.  You, on the other hand, are an ill-mannered lout.  I’m only sorry that he has to be burdened with your welfare.  If it were up to me, I’d let you fend for yourself.  Now stop bothering me, man, or I’ll take you back to Brewer myself.”

Too late, Guy registered the man’s name: FitzRoy of Scots, bastard son of the King of Scotland.  No wonder he was so arrogantly difficult.  Royal blood, Guy had cause to know, could be the most unreasonable thing in the world.

None of which explained why FitzRoy had ransomed him from Brewer in order to hand him over to Hood’s pet savage.  Even now, the Saracen was standing at his back.  Gisburne felt the space between his shoulders tingle, anticipating a blade, and whirled, throwing up his hands in defence.  Nasir only looked at him, utterly impassive, then uttered a single word.

“Wash.”

“What?”

“You stink.”  The man gestured to the rain barrel standing nearby  “Go, wash.  I will fetch the horses.”

“Why don’t you just kill me now.”  Guy had meant that to sound defiant, strong.  Instead, it came out resigned, the voice of a man too tired to care.  Nasir’s eyes glittered briefly, and Guy read in them the message, _Now what would be the fun in that?_   Then the man said again, “Go.  Wash,” and moved off to the stables.

For a moment, Guy thought about resisting.  He thought about refusing, about shouting for the city watch, about flinging himself at this man, who was one of those he had spent the last several years trying unsuccessfully to kill, and attempting to snap his neck with nothing but his bare hands.  For half a heartbeat, that was all he wanted to do and freedom be damned … but then, suddenly, his anger failed him and it all seemed just too much trouble.  The rain barrel was not far away, and he was in dire need of a dousing.  It was easier by far just to do what he was told.

The shock of the cold water left him gasping and shivering, but he felt a little better with the worst of the dirt sluiced off.  More human, at least.  There was nothing he could do about his tunic – it was beyond salvaging – but he hoped the dunking had got rid of most of the vermin.

The sound of hooves behind him made him turn.  The Saracen was mounted on an ordinary bay hack, holding a non-descript dun gelding on a lead rein.  Gisburne ran a practiced eye over the beast and scowled.  “I’m not riding that.”

The Saracen shrugged with supreme indifference.  “Then walk.”  He turned his horse, began to move away.  Gisburne sighed.

“Wait, damn you.”

At least, Guy thought as he left Newark, he had a horse under him and the open sky overhead.  Things, he now knew, could be far worse.

 

Will had been right about Newark.  He’d had no trouble finding himself an alehouse – and better yet, an alehouse with a view onto the market square where the Fosseway met the Great North Road.  If Nasir and his new fine friends were going anywhere, they’d have to pass this way to get there.  As far as excuses to settle in with a mug of ale and a meat pasty went, that was as good as any.  Besides, he needed to think.  Ale had always helped him when it came to that.  And the ale in this place was decent, as well – barely watered down and served in a relatively clean mug.  Amos, Will considered, taking a deep pull at his drink and sighing in appreciation as the ale went down, could learn from a place like this.

Something odd was happening here.  Will could make neither arse nor elbow from it, and that was God’s truth.  What business Robin could possibly have with an overdressed Norman lordling was beyond him, but then, it wasn’t so bloody long ago that Robin had been an overdressed Norman lordling himself.  Perhaps old loyalties died harder than Robin would have had them all believe.  Except that if it were that simple, if it were only Robert of bloody Huntingdon casting his noble-born shadow where it didn’t fucking belong, why all the slinking around?  And what was Nasir doing helping him?  The Saracen wasn’t a man for foolery; he’d not waste his time on just dropping off Robin’s bloody love notes.  No, Will was sure he was on the right track.  There was something more going on, and he was damned well going to find out what it was.

Or, he swore to himself as the ale went down, he’d know the bloody reason why.

When the dandified knight with his poncy squires went past in mid-afternoon with Nasir at heel, the Saracen looking as out of place as a wolf herding a gaggle of geese, there was a new player in the game.  Thin and ragged and slumped unhappily on the back of the horse Nasir was leading, the newcomer had long legs and a patchy beard and a thatch of unkempt blond hair.  Something about him made Will’s skin prickle suspiciously, though he could not have said why: the man could have been anyone, huddled and drawn in as he was.  Certainly he was too far away for Will to catch a proper glimpse of his face.  Even so, some part of Will’s wary mind growled in warning, and Will thought that was interesting too.  Taking a thoughtful pull at his drink, Will watched the small party go by, the knight riding straight through the crowd in the market square like Moses through the Red Sea.  Once they had reached the edge of the square and turned for the open road, he put his drink down and followed.  It meant leaving his third mug of ale only half-finished, but Will told himself it was worth it.

After all, when a man wanted to know what the bloody fuck was going on, some sacrifices had to be made.

 

“This is as far as we go.”  FitzRoy drew rein outside of Newark, where the Fosseway stretched off to the south and west, and the Trent veered away into a straggly stand of trees.  He gave Nasir a quick grin.  “Give Rob my regards, won’t you?  And tell him that next time he needs a favour, he can leave me out of it.  Not that telling him that is likely to do any good!”

Nasir nodded, hiding a smile.  Rob and his cousin must have been proper hellions, once.  “I will tell him.”

“Yes.  Well.”  FitzRoy shifted, gathering his reins.  “One more thing.  There was mention of a horse?”

Ah yes, Robin’s grey stallion.  Nasir reached into his pouch, brought out a thin scrap of paper.  “Rob sends you this.  The horse is at his father’s manor.  All you need do is claim it.”

Taking the missive, FitzRoy read his cousin’s words and laughed softly.  He glanced sidelong at Nasir.  “Have you read this?

“No.”

“He writes that he hopes you did not intimidate me.  Make a habit of scaring people, do you?”

Nasir quirked an eyebrow in amusement and looked pointedly at FitzRoy’s wary squires.  “So I have been told.”

“Oh, they’ll get over it.  Likely they’ll be telling tales of you for a month.  You’re quite exotic, you know.”  FitzRoy folded the paper into his own pouch and smiled.  Then his gaze went over Nasir’s shoulder to the ragged young knight slouching dispiritedly in his saddle, and his smile faltered and fell.

The Saracen had the other horse’s lead rope tied to his own mount’s harness, leaving his hands free.  Gisburne had already tried once to wrest control from the Saracen and break away, and had earned himself a solid clout around the ears and a guttural “Do _not!_ ” for his troubles.  FitzRoy doubted that he’d have got far even if the Saracen had not stopped him: the dun gelding was a quiet beast, not made for speed, and Gisburne himself did not look up to much either.  The man was clearly an accomplished horseman – FitzRoy could see that just by looking: Gisburne sat his horse as if riding were the most natural thing in the world – but his head hung down and he hunched in on himself, shivering miserably in the brisk autumn air.  FitzRoy wondered if he was ill.

“He’s not been well-treated,” the nobleman observed quietly.  “I hope you’ve not got far to go.”

Nasir only shrugged.  His eyes, when they went to Gisburne, were dispassionate, cold.  FitzRoy frowned, lips thinning, and rubbed at his jaw with the knuckles of one hand.  Gisburne, he could see, was not going to get much sympathy from that quarter.

“Wait.”  He reached under his mantle, fumbled with something, then handed a clanking coin pouch to Nasir.  “This is the rest of Rob’s money.  Brewer might be a vulture, but he’s an honest vulture.  He only took what was due him at the money changer; the rest he gave back.  You might need it, I think.  And … Jerome, come here.”  FitzRoy gestured to the first of his squires, who kicked his horse over to his lord’s side.  “You’re a tall lad.  You might do.”  He slapped at the youth’s saddlebags.  “You must have a spare tunic and leggings in there.  Do you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Get them out for our friend here, will you?” FitzRoy said, nodding towards Guy.  “Can’t have the man freeze to death on his first day of freedom now, can we?”

“No, my lord.”  Jerome sounded gloomy, but he did as he was told.  “I’ve my second best cloak here too, my lord.  Will you be wanting that as well?”

“What?  Oh, yes.  Don’t worry, I’ll find you better.”

Nasir, who had no doubt that FitzRoy would do just that, chuckled to himself under his breath.  Oh yes, this man was definitely of Robin’s line.  Apparently, taking pity on waifs and strays ran in the blood too.

 

The trews were too short, and the tunic too tight in the shoulders, but at least they were clean and dry.  Guy supposed that he should be grateful he still had his own boots.  A gust of wind buffeted the small camp-site, making the surrounding trees creak and sway and sparks swirl out of the shelter of the small fire pit the Saracen had dug.  Gisburne huddled disconsolately before the wavering flames, cursing under his breath and drawing the cloak FitzRoy had given him more tightly about himself.  He wondered if he would ever be warm again.  A deep chill had gnawed its way into his bones at some point during his time in Newark’s dank cells, all cold stone and hopelessness, and now no borrowed cloak or hissing fire seemed enough to ward it away.

The Saracen was behaving oddly.  For a start, he was not treating Guy as a prisoner.  Nor was he even acting as if Guy mattered much at all.  Gisburne did not know what to make of it.  The man had left his hands unbound and showed no concern that he might attempt an escape.  There was reason enough for that, if Guy wanted to be fair: he was unarmed, penniless and ailing, and in the middle of nowhere, besides – where was he going to go?  Guy was not in the business of being fair, though.  He was being held by a man who, not so long ago, would have seen him as an honest threat and treated him like one too, trussing him up like a butchered boar and watching him with wariness and good clean hate.  Clearly the man no longer thought him worth the effort.  Right now, Guy was not sure what was worse: owing his life, such as it was, to a wolfshead, or being so steadfastly discounted.  Guy could withstand all manner of mistreatment, but he could not bear to be ignored.

They had ridden on for what was left of the day, after FitzRoy had left them.  Gisburne had thought, once or twice, about trying for the reins again, or even making some attempt to get his hands on one of the Saracen’s weapons, but the swiftness of that earlier correction made such things seem unwise.  The Saracen said not a word, but kept their pace steady, never pushing the horses past a light sweat.  Guy was glad of that; his back ached horribly from where the guard at Newark had struck him with his club, his head felt as if someone had smashed a wine flagon inside his skull and left all the pieces to grate against each other until he went mad, and he hadn’t eaten in two days.  As the sun sank, the wind that had been gusting all day strengthened, cutting and cool, making Guy more miserable by the mile.  When the Saracen had finally stopped as the light waned, Gisburne had been nearly ready to fall from the saddle.  Dropping off the side of his horse, he had lurched barely three steps before his knees faltered and the world faded to grey.  He stayed upright only by virtue of a strategically placed tree and sheer stubborn effort of will, feeling as weak as a kitten.  Perhaps the Saracen was right to discount him, then.

During their ride, Gisburne’s weary mind had cast about for some sign of what was going on, and why, but without success.  This man, of all men, had no reason to help him, and in any case, he was hardly likely to be acting on his own initiative.  Clearly Hood – Huntingdon, if you could believe it, though why a man of such breeding would chose to run with a pack of peasants was something Gisburne would never understand – was behind it.  Give Rob my regards, FitzRoy had said, which only meant that he was in on it too.  Guy could not begin to imagine why Robin Hood would orchestrate his release from Newark’s gaol, but whatever the man’s reasons Guy had no cause to think them good.  Most likely this would all end with him dead in a ditch somewhere.  Gisburne scowled.  If Hood wanted his blood, the least the man could do was come and kill him himself.

A nudge from the Saracen’s booted foot jolted Guy out of his sullen reverie.  He looked up, prepared to snap something sharp and insulting, only to have a small bowl of hot broth thrust into his hands.  His stomach rumbled keenly under the hiss of the wind.

“Here.  Eat.”  A heel of hard bread accompanied the brusque words.  Guy glared.

“I’m not hungry,” he said stubbornly.

“Liar.  Eat.”

“If you think I’ll break bread with you, you filthy savage, you’re mad.”

The Saracen only looked at him, impassive.  “Then starve.” 

Moving away, the man set about eating his own meal with the spare, methodical motions of a man performing a necessary if joyless task.  Gisburne watched for a moment, painfully aware of the hollow, gnawing emptiness in his stomach.  The Saracen glanced at him over the flames.

“Eat.”

Gisburne ate.

As soon as the broth-soaked bread touched his lips, his hunger, until now repressed, roared free.  He tore at the bread like a wolf, emptied the bowl in mouthfuls, and looked up to see the outlaw watching him with an amused expression.  It was on the tip of Gisburne’s tongue to snarl something defensive, but all the man did was lean over and push the cook pot towards him. 

Guy glared again, but dipped his bowl into the pot all the same.  This time he ate more slowly, savouring the warmth in the way that a man lost in an endless night might savour the coming of dawn.  It made him feel better than he had all day, more alive, more himself.  Wiping his mouth on the sleeve (also too short, but beggars made do with what they were given) of his new tunic, Guy fixed the Saracen with a hard, demanding stare.

“What do you want with me?”

A shake of the Saracen’s dark head answered that, and a raised hand that seemed to gesture for silence.  Guy swore.

“I know you can speak, man.  Answer me!  What’s this about?”  It was the tone of voice that usually made the guards of Nottingham quake.  This man, though, barely noticed.  He was staring beyond Gisburne into the wind-tossed shadows of the trees of the spinney where he had chosen to make their camp, hidden from casual travellers by a dip in the land.  The Saracen’s eyes were suddenly as intense as a hunting hawk’s, and the hand he had raised to hush Guy had flown to the hilt of his nearest sword.  Gisburne, who had been a soldier for half his life, felt his instincts surge and a chill run down the back of his neck.  He had time to hiss, “What?  What is it?” and then something sprang out of the night and there was a shout, cursing in a language Guy didn’t know – Arabic, he supposed, when he thought about it later – and a quick flurry of movement in which Gisburne tried to duck away and raise his hands to ward off whatever was coming at him, wishing fervently for a sword, or a buckler, or even a God-cursed _stick_ , anything but fighting off unseen attackers bare-handed … and then, something cracked hard against the side of his skull and everything fell into darkness.

 

Trust Nasir to find himself a bloody horse.  Will didn’t like horses, great stupid things, with their hard hooves and rolling eyes and alarming tendency to run in all the wrong directions: he was an infantry man to the core.  Give him a decent pair of boots and a good meal, and he’d walk all day.  Give him a horse, and he’d moan and gripe and fall off three times before supper.  Nasir, though, rode like he’d spent half his fucking life in one saddle or another – and if that wasn’t another sign the man was noble-born, Will didn’t know what was.  Bloody noblemen.  Even their own sodding legs weren’t good enough for them.

Being mounted made them hard to follow.  Well, no, that was not true; it made them easier to follow, but harder to catch up with.  Horses tended to stick to roads and pathways, after all – they weren’t much for blundering about in the undergrowth.  It did not take Will long to find the place where the group had split off, the puffed-up knight and his fresh-faced squires moving off to the south and west, Nasir and whoever the hell he had with him circling around to the east.  Will couldn’t imagine why.  There was nothing to the east, except for miles of marsh and gods-forsaken fenland.  If Nasir wanted to wade about in mud up to his bloody knees, he could have done that without leaving Sherwood.

Darkness came, bringing with it the chill of the turning year.  Will snugged his hands into his armpits, hunched down into his jerkin, and kept going.  They couldn’t be that far ahead of him: Nasir wouldn’t ride a horse into the ground without some pressing urgency to drive him on, and Will hadn’t seen anything especially urgent in the Saracen’s pace so far.  The man did have the heinously bad habit of rising before the dawn, though; he’d not waste any time come morning.  Which meant finding the bastard tonight, or not finding the bastard at all.

The wind was gusting hard now, making Will’s eyes stream and the thin trees along the spurway bend and shiver.  There was no way Nasir would set camp in the open, not in this wind.  No, he’d look for shelter, some curve of the land or thick belt of hedgerow, somewhere out of sight of the pathway and with space for two men and their horses.  Nasir was careful about things like that.  The man had spent too much time being hunted, both in Sherwood and, Will suspected, in the life he had known before England, to be happy to sleep just anywhere.

It helped to know what he was looking for.  In a place where the land dipped to the lee of the wind, in a tight stand of trees screened from the spurway by a sprawl of blackberry and hawthorn, Will spotted the red-orange gleam of a low fire, with a pair of horses tethered nearby and two men sitting in the glow.

Nasir he recognised at once, though the man’s face was turned.  Will would know the set of those shoulders anywhere, and that sardonic tilt of the head, even without the distinctive studded jerkin and the impressive array of blades.  The other, though, was cast in shadows, hunched and huddled as if he wished himself any bloody place but here.  There was the faint gleam of fair hair as the man shifted, pulling his cloak tighter, but Will still could not make out his face.  Even so, something tugged at the back of Will’s mind, like an itch wanting to be scratched.  He had thought the man oddly familiar when he caught sight of him in Newark, and that feeling was stronger now.  It raised the hackles on the back of Will’s neck.  He did not even notice that he was clutching his knife ready in his hand.

Nasir handed the man a bowl of something, exchanged a few brief words.  That made Will’s cheek twitch in a humourless half-smile.  Any words with Naz tended to be brief; there were days when the Saracen could make a bloody stone seem talkative.  The second man hesitated – maybe he didn’t fancy Nasir’s cooking, not that Will had ever noticed much to complain about – but after a pause, he seemed to attack his meal, doing his best to eat everything all at once.

And then, to Will’s shock and sudden fury, the stranger raised his face to the light and spoke.

 _Gisburne._   There was no mistaking that arrogant, commanding voice, even if the man who used it had clearly seen better days.  Deep and brusque and haughty, that voice had never, in Will’s experience, brought anything with it but danger and suffering.  Hearing it now made his blood surge hot, and Will didn’t pause to think, only cast himself forward on that familiar

(scarletscarletscarletscarlet)

red wave.

 

Gisburne’s first thought as he came back to himself was that he rather wished people would stop hitting him in the head.  His second, and far more startling than the first, was that the Saracen had just saved his life.  The man was standing over him even now, one of his short, elegant blades in his hand, arguing furiously with someone who seemed very badly to want him dead.  Or no, that was not quite right: the Saracen was not arguing at all.  He was utterly silent, save for the occasional hiss of warning when Gisburne stirred or the other came too close. 

It was the other man who was making all the noise.  Gisburne, feeling his heart sink, recognised the voice at once: Scarlet.  The madman.  The killer.  Guy’s instincts howled at him to get up, to defend himself, to fight.  He thrashed, ignoring his reeling head and kicking for purchase, trying to find his feet, but the Saracen’s heel came down briskly on his chest, pushing him flat.  The man was not gentle.  His voice came to Guy as a low growl, like a hunting lion.

“Stay _down_.”

Scarlet was furious.  “What the bloody _fuck_ did you do that for, you mad sod?  You could’ve bloody killed me!” 

Distantly, Gisburne supposed that was true – but only if the Saracen had wanted to.  It had not been Gisburne’s impression that this man killed people by accident.  Which was a shame, really, since Scarlet might have benefited from a misplaced length of steel.  At least that might have shut him up.  Very carefully, Guy turned his head and saw Scarlet looming in the firelight, cradling one arm against his chest (perhaps the Saracen had broken the man’s wrist?  Now there was a satisfying thought!) and looking angry enough to chew rocks.

“Don’t fucking give me that look!  Two bloody inches to the right, and I’d be bleeding like a stuck pig!  And it’s _Gisburne!_ ”  Will flung out his good arm, pointing at Guy as if he thought that perhaps Nasir hadn’t noticed.  “If any man deserves to be skinned from the feet up and hung by his heels, it’s that vicious bastard right there.”  Rubbing at his jaw where Nasir had punched him – the man was as quick as a bloody cat: Will hadn’t even seen it coming – after dragging him off Gisburne and slamming him into a tree, Will scowled accusingly.  “And what the fuck are you playing at anyway, skulking around out here with him?  Switching sides on us, are you?  Oh, that’s very fucking nice, that is.  Unless you were planning on killing him yourself?  ’Cos it don’t much look like it, does it?”

“Will –”

“This what you and Robin been whispering about behind everyone’s back, is it?  You know, I’d expect this bollocks from Robin, earl’s son and all – he can’t fucking help it, he’ll always stick up for his own kind …”

“Will –”

“… but I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d be so bloody soft as to sodding well _listen_ to him.  His kind ain’t your kind, after all.”  Will paused deliberately, then his face twisted in a nasty sneer.  “Or is he?  Is that it?  Taken your fancy, has he, pretty young thing?”

Nasir’s eyes were as cold and hard as the sword he suddenly levelled at Will’s throat.  “Do not,” the man grated.  “Do _not._ ”

Well now, mused Gisburne, who thought he had recognised a certain note in the Saracen’s voice, a certain deep-buried ache.  That was interesting.  He wondered if the Saracen would kill Scarlet fast or slow for saying that.

Will, faced with three feet of sharpened steel at his neck, understood in a moment that he had taken things too far.  Nasir looked ready to kill him on the spot and send his body back to Sherwood in pieces.  The man’s eyes sent a shiver down Will’s spine.  He could not have named what he saw in them – rage, despair, anguish, pride – but he knew enough to raise his hands in submission and step back.  “Naz.  Easy.”

“Do not speak such shame.  Of Rob or of me!”

“No.  Naz, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean anything by it.”  Which was true, if it came to that: it had only been something cutting to say.  He supposed he should have known better: Nasir could be touchy about his honour, and what Scarlet had suggested was a slur not to be taken lightly.  Will gestured again at Gisburne, trying to explain.  “It’s only seeing him here, and you and Robin sneaking about like a pair of stable cats looking for the biggest rat in the barn …  Dammit, man, what the bloody fuck is going on?”

Gisburne would have liked to know that too.  He tried to push himself up, and made it as far as his elbows.  His head, which had been aching to begin with, throbbed terribly.  The Saracen spared him a single glance; Guy stayed still.  Nasir turned his basilisk stare back on Will, his blade still levelled, still ready to strike … and then he muttered what could only have been a curse in his native tongue and let the blade fall, stepping away from Gisburne and gesturing Will towards the fire.  “Sit.”

“But what about Gisburne?  You just going to leave him there?”

“Where will he go, Will?  Look at him.”

Will did, and frowned.  He was used to Gisburne posturing and strutting about, all energy and anger, but what he saw now was something else.  This man had had all the strut knocked out of him.  Then Guy, who had dragged himself up to lean against a small tree with his head in his hands, lifted his eyes and gave Scarlet his best defiant stare, and Will saw that the anger was still there, but burning too low to matter.  Likely it was nothing that a few decent meals and three solid days of sleep wouldn’t fix, but even so, Will decided that Nasir was right.  Unarmed, ill-dressed, and wounded deeper than his bruises showed, this man wasn’t going anywhere.

“He looks like shit.”

Nasir grunted.  Guy snarled.

“Watch your tongue, wolfshead!”

“Or what?  You’re in no position to be making threats now, my lord of Gisburne!”

“I’ll have your – ”

“Be silent!”  Nasir seldom raised his voice, but now it snapped out like a whip, sharp and stunning.  His accent made it sharper still.  “You,” he ordered, pointing at Will, “leave him.  And you,” and his eyes cut to Gisburne, uncompromising and fierce, “do not speak.”

Will blinked, taken aback at the dictatorial tone of his friend’s voice.  “You bloody are noble born, aren’t you?”

Nasir cast the one-time soldier an exasperated look.  “Sit, Will.”

Will did so, reluctantly.  He rolled his shoulders, gave his injured arm a careful flex.  “You didn’t have to try and snap my hand off, you know.  Still bloody hurts.”

Nasir gave him a very level look and did not apologise.  As it happened, Will had managed to fetch him a rather convincing elbow to the ribs; they ached when he breathed in, but he did not think Scarlet had cracked them.  A sharp twist to the wrist seemed fair compensation, in his opinion.  Will made a wry face, relenting.  “All right, I asked for it.  Fair enough.”  His eyes slid to the little cooking pot, set aside near the fire.  “Any food left?”

A single nod answered him.  Will grinned.  That was the Nasir he knew.  He set to with enthusiasm, digging a slab of hard bread out of the sack of travelling rations his Saracen friend had managed to find and sopping the broth straight out of the pot.

“’S’good, this.  I’m starving.  Haven’t had bugger all since leaving camp.  Hard man to catch up with, you are.”

“You followed.”

“’Course I did.  Didn’t think I’d let you slink off on your own now, did you?  Dangerous out here for a man travelling alone.”  Will smirked around a mouthful of bread.  Nasir did not smirk back.

“Robin knows?”

“Probably worked it out by now.  He’s not slow.”  The pot was empty; Will scraped around the sides with the last of his bread, searching for dregs.  “Don’t suppose there’s any point asking if you’ve got anything to drink?  Wine, maybe?  No?  Aye, well, didn’t think so.”  Scarlet gave a resigned grunt and put the pot down.  “What you doing out here, anyway?  With bloody Gisburne?”

Nasir did not answer.  Will waited a moment, watching him, then rolled his eyes, unsurprised but frustrated by the man’s silence.  “’Course you won’t tell me.  You don’t need to.  I can figure it out.”  He looked thoughtfully at Gisburne, who glared back with simple bold hate.  “Can’t be that Robin wants him dead, though bugger me if I know why he’d want him otherwise.  Maybe the earl’s son in him can’t stand to see a titled knight brought down to the level of a fucking commoner. I don’t know.  He’s too fucking soft sometimes, Robin.”  Will scowled and spat into the fire; he had never really forgiven

(Robert of Huntingdon)

Robin for either the status of his birth or his reluctance to feather Gisburne with a dozen yard shafts and have done.  “No, if he’d wanted Gisburne dead, you could’ve just left the bastard in Newark and let Brewer’s headsman get on with it.  And as for you, you don’t give a rat’s arse for Gisburne’s neck.  You’re only doing what Robin asked of you.  Am I right so far?”

The Saracen neither spoke nor moved, but Gisburne thought the bully-boy was not too far off the mark.  The same thing had occurred to him after the Saracen had kept Scarlet from smashing his skull: the man didn’t want him dead.  Oh, Gisburne had no doubt that the Saracen would cut his throat and not break stride if it came to that, but he would have to be pushed.  There was some comfort in that thought; Gisburne began to think it possible that he might get out of this alive.

Of course, that depended on whether or not the Saracen’s discipline held, and on Scarlet not killing him first.

“I’m right,” Will said confidently.  He leaned forward, chin cocked challengingly.  “But what I don’t understand is this: what the bloody hell are you going to do with him now?  You can’t let him loose, or he’ll be straight back to hunting us before you even turn around, and making life bloody miserable for any village we’ve ever been near.  So what’s Robin’s plan, eh?  Ship him off to Ireland and hope he falls in a bog?  Hope the Fair Folk take him?”  Will made a scoffing sound to show how likely he thought that was.  “And here’s what else I don’t understand: why?  Why the bloody fuck does Robin want to save that animal’s miserable life?”

In the dim light of the fire, Gisburne’s eyes glittered.  That was the question he wanted answered too.  He heard himself say, “Yes.  Answer that.  Why?  What does he want with me?”

Both outlaws turned to look at him.  Will muttered something angry and obscene; Nasir’s gaze cut clear and cold.  Guy, impatient, frustrated and hurt, refused to be stared down.  His courage, after all, was the last thing he had.  He was about to ask again, in the flat, unrelenting tone that always seemed to work wonders with peasants and cattle, when the Saracen shrugged.  In the shadows, it looked slightly mocking.

“Truly, is mercy not a virtue amongst your people?”

“Mercy is,” Gisburne snapped, “but this … You … Ireland isn’t mercy!”

“You are alive.  If I can, I will keep you that way.  Robin wishes it.”  A dagger appeared in Nasir’s hand; he made it spin and flick and disappear again.  “This is mercy.”

“But why?” Gisburne insisted.  “Does he expect me to be grateful?”  He might have used the same tone to ask if Robin expected him to fly to the moon.  Scarlet’s head shot up, abrupt and fierce.

“Grateful?  You bloody should be, you bastard.  You,” he hissed, stabbing at the air with a savage finger, “should get on your fucking knees and thank God that I haven’t ripped your head off yet!  Be grateful for that!”

“You can’t,” Gisburne jeered back.  “The Saracen won’t let you.”

“I may,” Nasir said bluntly.  “Do not push.”

“But you said …”

“I said I will keep you alive if I can.  _Inshallah_.  If not …”  Another flourish of that knife, quick and gleaming.  Will’s teeth flashed too, as sharp as the blade and twice as hungry.

“If not, you get what’s coming to you, Gisburne,” Scarlet growled.  “And God willing, I’ll be the one who gives it to you.”

The man sounded, Guy thought, unnecessarily hopeful.  The young knight fell silent, watching the outlaws with hot, hating eyes.

Will looked away from Gisburne and cracked his jaw in a yawn.  “I’m about done in.  Been walking all bloody day, almost.  You can tell me where we’re taking him in the morning.  You good to take first watch?”

Nasir nodded, toeing another dry branch into the fire.  It crackled as it caught, sending up a brief shower of sparks.  Will grunted, tipped his head towards Gisburne.

“What about him, then?”

“Leave be, Will.”

“You can’t leave him free.  Safer if he’s bound.”  Will paused meaningfully.  “For everyone.” 

Nasir made a vague gesture with one hand that seemed to say, _Do as you will_. 

Scarlet nodded.  “Good choice.”

There was a short length of rope in one of the saddlebags, meant as a lead for a packhorse.  It would do the trick.  Will looped it in his hands and turned to where Gisburne sat.  Gisburne, who had followed that last exchange unhappily, protested at his approach.  “No.”

“I’m not asking.”

“Not you.”  Gisburne lifted his chin, indicating the Saracen sitting by the fire.  “He can do it.  Him.”

Will grinned nastily.  “He’s got a name, you know.”

“Nasir.”  Guy had the satisfaction of seeing a brief expression of surprise flash over Scarlet’s face – what, did the man think he didn’t know who his enemies were? – and tried not to smirk.  “Him.”

For a moment, Will looked as if he would argue, but then he muttered something in disgust and tossed the rope at his companion.  “You deal with him then, Naz.  I’m turning in.  Wake me when it’s my turn to keep an eye on the bastard, yeah?”

Will was asleep almost as soon as he hit the ground.

Nasir gave the fire another nudge, then got to his feet and moved to where Gisburne waited.  Guy didn’t resist as the man bound his hands, securely enough but in front of him for comfort, and tethered him to the tree against which he was resting.  He had not been simply trying to be difficult when he had refused to let Scarlet do this; rather, Guy had decided that he would prefer to trust in the Saracen’s detached, professional bearing than in the dubious mercies of a lunatic who wanted to kill him and piss on his corpse.  Scarlet would probably have trussed him up like a Michaelmas goose.  Nasir at least remembered he was a man.

When he was done, the Saracen hunkered down on his haunches and reached for Gisburne’s face.  Guy swore, jerking away, but the man only cuffed him once about the head and growled at him to be still.  Taking hold of Gisburne’s jaw, Nasir tilted the man’s head to the light of the fire, frowning at the raised welt and dried blood that marked where the heavy hilt of Will’s knife had hit him.

“There is pain?”

“What do you think?”

“I think Will hit you very hard.  But I think, too, your skull is a thick one.”

Guy grunted.  “I’ve heard that before.”

Something that might have been a smile flickered on the Saracen’s face.  He leaned closer, peering intently at Gisburne’s eyes.  After a moment he sat back, seeming satisfied.  “You will have a headache for a day or two, perhaps, but there is no lasting harm.”

“I’ve had worse.”  Gisburne shifted, uncomfortable with both the man’s proximity and his consideration.  He was more used to being shouted at or quailed from than tended to.  He wasn’t sure he liked it.

The Saracen only looked at him, face unreadable, then moved back with a nod.  Quietly, he said, “You have questions.”

“I’m not going to Ireland.”

Nasir laughed, short and low.  It was not a friendly sound.  “No.  Not Ireland.  Robin wants you gone from this land, for your sake and ours.  You are finished here. You know that, yes?”

“I’m finished with de Rainault.  But I could take service …”

“No.”  The man sketched a cutting, definitive gesture.  “You are finished with England.  The king is against you, and a paid pardon is nothing.  There is nothing in this land for you.”

Which was, Gisburne could allow, most likely true, but he still didn’t know why Robin Hood should care.  Or why anyone should care, if it came to that.  The Saracen went on.

“You have family, perhaps?  In France, in Normandy?”

Family.  Guy supposed that he probably did, for what little it was worth.  He had no intention of throwing himself on the mercy of his lying

(faithless slut!)

mother’s kin, and he wouldn’t have turned to Edmund of Gisburne’s people for so much as a glimpse of water if he was dying in a desert.  Not after everything that man

(papa please no)

had done to him.  He still had the God-cursed scars. 

“Family?”  Guy couldn’t help himself; he gave a disparaging snort.  “You think if I had family worth a damn, I’d have spent so long rotting in that God- forsaken hole?”

 _I think if you did not have family worth a damn, you’d be in that hole still,_ Nasir thought, but did not say.  He held his silence and waited, watching with that steady gaze.  If he had not known that Gisburne was damaged before, he was seeing it now.  This man did not believe he had an ally in all the world – or even, Nasir suspected, that he deserved one.  _All because I grew up in my father’s house and he didn’t …_ Nasir shook his head, imperceptibly.  _Ya Allah_ , Rob didn’t know the half of it.

“I still don’t understand.”  Gisburne looked straight ahead as he spoke, into the wavering firelight and the shuddering trees.  “Why come for me.  Why?”

“Mercy,” Nasir said again, slowly.  “Forgiveness.  And perhaps this too: Robin thought your sentence unjust.”

The bitter irony of that was not lost on Guy.  The people had always claimed that Hood stood for justice, for righting perceived wrongs, and never mind the laws he might break which Gisburne was sworn to uphold.  Except now he had brought Gisburne justice, and done it within the law, and Guy didn’t know who to hit or who to blame, or whether to rage or weep.  It was enough to make a man howl.

Guy dropped his head into his bound hands and said, very low, “Go away.  I want to sleep.”

If his voice was not as steady as it should have been, Nasir had the good grace not to show that he had noticed.

 

Will’s arrival had complicated things in one way and simplified them in another.  It was complicated because now Nasir had two people asking the kinds of questions he had sworn not to answer, and because Will and Gisburne seemed intent on baiting one another into violence, but it was simpler because it meant sharing tasks like the night watch.  Nasir liked knowing he’d at least get some sleep.

Gisburne was interesting.  In spite of what he’d told his friend – _There is no resemblance_ – Nasir had not been able to resist looking for Robin in Guy.  He had not found him, nor even any a sign of kinship beyond that strikingly fair hair and the pale piercing eyes and, perhaps, a certain cant to the jaw.  What he had found surprised him; he had never really thought of Gisburne as vulnerable, before now.  But then, before now, he had never really thought of Gisburne at all.

As for Will … Nasir frowned at the sleeping man and sighed.  Will was quite probably the most provocative person he knew, picking fights with effortless ease and his words with uncanny accuracy.  What he’d implied earlier about Rob, and about Nasir’s motivations, was the kind of thing men might spill blood over.  If it touched, deep down, on some truth, that did not make it any the less wrong.  Nasir shied from that.  No, what he felt for Rob was a more chaste thing.  It had to be.  There were some paths he could not travel, no matter what aches he might endure.  Some paths Rob could not travel either, and they both knew it.

These were not thoughts he wanted to have.  If Scarlet wanted to misconstrue friendship, even brotherhood, into something more base and less pure, let him.  Scarlet, after all, was a base and impure creature at the best of times; he would not understand that beauty could be its own reason.  Nasir knew better.

The moon had climbed high with the night more than half gone, and the wind had eased.  Gisburne was curled in on himself with his face buried in his own arms like a child hiding from dreams in the dark.  Will was muttering in his sleep, making angry little grabbing motions with his hands.  Nasir grimaced, stood, and stretched, feeling his bruised ribs pull and complain.  He’d performed the last of his daily prayers hours ago; he was more than ready for sleep.  Will came awake with a splutter and a bleary curse when Nasir nudged his foot hard with the stick he’d been using to poke the fire.

“Wha’?  Wozzit?  Morning?”

“No.  Your watch.”  Nasir removed himself to the other side of the fire and made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard ground.

“Gisburne?”

“Sleeping.  Don’t kill him.”  Nasir turned his back and let rest come and take him as it would. 

It would be dawn soon enough, and they had a ways to go.

 

“Who’s FitzRoy?”

Nasir gave Gisburne a hard glance.  The man’s brief fragility of the night before had passed; this morning, he was his usual sullen, demanding self.  His arrogance was somewhat diminished perhaps, by his long imprisonment and his uncertain future, but it was still enough to make Will bristle.  Then again, Gisburne drawing breath was enough to make Will bristle.  He and the young Norman noble were eyeing each other like a pair of mastiffs preparing to fight over a bone.  Nasir had been waiting for the snarling to start since dawn.

“FitzRoy, eh?”  Will, who had been rummaging in the rations again, looking to break the night’s fast, cocked his head aggressively.  “Is that the dandy with the expensive-looking horse?  Another fancy fucking Frenchman making himself rich by taking what don’t belong to him, I’ll wager.”

“Really?”  Gisburne couldn’t help but bite at the irony in that.  “Well, you’d know all about taking what isn’t yours.”

Will straightened, glaring.  “You calling me a thief?”

“Thief and murderer.  Wolfshead.”

“You …”  Scarlet’s hand went for his knife; he took a single pace forward.  Guy, hands still bound, sneered at him.

“Coward!  Come on, then. Attack an unarmed man.  Killer!”

“Stop!”  Nasir’s voice snapped out with a crack like a branch breaking, making Will jump and Gisburne flinch.  The Saracen turned hot, flashing eyes on each of them in turn, then thrust the saddle in his arms at Will, hard enough to make the man grunt.  “See to the horses.”

Will blinked in disbelief, ready to round his temper on a new target.  “D’you think I’m your bloody …”

“The horses, Will.”  Uncompromising, absolute.  “Now.”  The man spoke as if he expected to be obeyed; his eyes warned what might happen if he wasn’t.  Will scowled and hefted the saddle.

“Yeah, well.  Just keep him the hell away from me, is all.  And shut him up.”

Nasir gave the slightest dip of the head, but his eyes did not soften.  Will looked from him to Gisburne and back, then made a noise of disgust and went to do as he was told.

“Do not bait him.”  The Saracen spoke to Gisburne without looking at him, cursorily and over his shoulder.  “It is not wise.”

“The man’s a common cutthroat.”  Which was true: Guy remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Scarlet, when the man had been dragged into Nottingham’s guardhouse, drenched in blood like a demon and raving about his wife.  Three men dead that day, and another hurt badly enough that he would never hold a sword again, and all because a silly Saxon wench had got out of line, and her rabid dog of a husband had objected.  Guy’s expression was scornful.  He tugged against his bonds.  “I’m not going to be intimidated by the likes of him.”

 _Then you are a fool,_ Nasir thought, though he confined himself to only sending the man a flat glance and squatting down to untie his hands.  “Behave.”

From across the spinney came the sound of cursing and stamping, and a high nervous whicker: Will arguing with the horses.  Gisburne and Nasir both frowned towards the noise.

“Will!  Take care!”

“Mind those animals, man!”

They both spoke at once, then stopped and looked at each other.  Nasir shook his head, amused, but the look on Gisburne’s face was somewhere between abashed and appalled.  Nasir found that interesting.  The man was unrepentant about goading Will into anger, but when he was caught showing concern for a horse he ducked and flushed as if he’d done something shameful and expected to be roundly mocked.  There was, Nasir decided, something very unhappy in that.

Gisburne recovered himself, rubbing at his wrists where the rope had chafed and not meeting the Saracen’s eyes.  His voice was gruff.  “Tell me about FitzRoy.  Who is he?”

Nasir raised an eyebrow, bemused.  “FitzRoy is who he is.  FitzRoy of Scots.”

“I know his name, wolfshead.”  Guy couldn’t say that without sneering.  “What I want to know is who is he to you, and why did he pay my parole?”

“To us, he is … useful,” Nasir replied truthfully.  He did not bring kinship into it; he did not feel he had to.  “And your parole, he did not.”

“What?  Of course he did.  I saw it.”

“No.  He paid nothing.  He merely delivered a writ.”

“A writ from whom?”

Nasir considered not answering, but did so anyway.  Part of that was curiosity, part was simple contrariness.  “Aaron de Talmont.  Of Lincoln.” 

Nasir watched as Gisburne tried to make sense of that.  The man’s brow furrowed, his lower lip jutting in a confused pout.  He blinked several times.  It made him look, Nasir thought, like an overtired child puzzling over a philosophy text.

“De Talmont?” he said at last, sounding baffled.  “Wasn’t that the name of the money-lender with the pretty dau…”  He caught himself just in time, shook his head hard and pushed himself roughly to his feet.  Nasir rose with him, watching him carefully.  Gisburne glared.

“Lie to me, then.  I don’t care.  I’m free of de Rainault, free of Brewer, and soon enough I’ll be free of you and Hood and those savages you call friends.  What does it matter who paid my parole, compared to that?”

His only answer was a wry tip of the head.  Gisburne swore, swung about on his heel, and strode towards the trees.  The Saracen spoke.

“Where do you go?”

Gisburne glowered at him over his shoulder.  “I’m going to take a piss, man.  What, do you think I’m going to disappear like morning mist?  You can come and watch, if you like.” 

That last was thick with sarcasm.  Nasir, who really would have preferred not, sighed to himself, shouldered his weapons and shadowed Gisburne at a discreet distance.

There were times when what Robin asked of him was rather a lot to bear.

 

“Right, then.”  The horses stood patiently where Will had left them, huffing soft clouds of white into the crisp morning air and tearing thoughtfully at the dew-soaked grass along the edge of the hedgerow.  Will eyed the pair of them and gave a satisfied nod, like a man surveying a good morning’s work.  “Well, Naz, there’s your bloody horses.  You want to tell me where we’re going?”

Nasir blinked at the tangle of his horse’s reins and grunted his disapproval.  Stepping past Will, he ran a hand down the smooth bay neck and whispered something easy and reassuring into the flicking ear, clever fingers deftly smoothing the bridle and adjusting the heft of the bit.  To Will, he said: “You should go back to Sherwood.  To Robin.”

Will snorted.  “What, an’ leave you alone out here?  With Gisburne?  Not likely.”

A brief, flat glance told Will that his concern was not welcome.  He wasn’t surprised; Nasir never took well to suggestions that he might not be up to looking after himself.  The man seemed to think he was bloody invincible, that was his trouble.  Will knew better.  Nasir was good at what he did, and competent at near everything else, but get in under his guard and he bled like any other man.  And Gisburne, whatever else he was, was a fighter.  A man could do better than underestimate him.  Even if, right now, he did look like something that had been stuffed into a sack and beaten with sticks.

“Robin may have more need of you than I do.  Go.”

Will’s jaw lifted to its most stubborn angle.  “I told you, no.  Robin’s not doing anything but sitting on his arse moping over Marion in any case, an’ he don’t need my help for that.  In fact,” Will pointed out with a touch of malice, “if anyone should go back, it’s you.  You’re the one he bloody talks to, after all.  Let me take care of Gisburne.”

Nasir only gave him that flat look again, but Will was accustomed by now to hearing what the Saracen didn’t say.  He shrugged.  “All right, so no one’s going back.  So you might as well tell me the plan.  What are we doing with Gisburne?”  Will frowned suddenly, looking around.  “And where the bloody hell is he, anyway?”

“Right here, wolfshead.”  Gisburne strode out of last night’s small campsite with a half full waterskin in his hands, which he tossed almost challengingly at Scarlet’s feet.  “Did you miss me?”

“With every fucking shot so far,” Will said sourly.  He flung Nasir a dark, demanding look.  “What’s he doing wandering about loose?”

“Will.”  Nasir sounded tired of this argument already.  “Leave be.”

“But …”

“Where do you think he will go that I cannot track him, Will?  On foot, unarmed, in this place?”  The Saracen’s tone was dismissive, but even so his eyes followed Gisburne carefully.  “If he were fool enough to try, he would not get far.”

That, Guy knew, was for his benefit as much as it was for Scarlet’s.  And the Saracen was right; there was no point in trying to run.  Not yet, at any rate.  Guy could wait.  He was used to taking his chances where he found them.

Moving to where the dun gelding – great slow plowhorse of a thing, not a spark of fire in it – waited, Guy tried to hide how stiff and sore his body felt after a day in the saddle and a night on the hard ground.  Living on horseback and sleeping where he fell … Gisburne swallowed a sigh.  There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would have endured such things without remark, without even thought.  But that had been before Newark, and a pair of months spent starving in a cage.  He had not realised how much it had taken out of him.

The dun was poorly saddled.  Setting a knee into the animal’s belly, Guy pushed up, tugging at the girth strap.  “Let down, you wind-sucking nag,” he muttered, feeling the horse resist briefly before submitting to the girth.  Scarlet, he thought, had not done his task well.  If any stable lad at Nottingham had been so careless, Gisburne would have given him the back of his hand.

“Look, Naz.”  Will was trying to sound reasonable.  Guy, who thought he was making a weak fist of it, listened without looking up.  “You keep heading east, you’ll end up in the fens.  Hundreds of fucking acres of nothing but swamp.  What are you playing at?  If we want to drown the bastard, there’s decent water closer to home.”

“We do not drown him.  We take him to the coast and secure him passage to France.”

“France?”  Gisburne couldn’t help himself: he swung and stared.  “France?  A Channel crossing at the tail end of the season?  You must be mad.”

“Not mad.  We have coin; they have ships; you will go.”  Nasir made that sound like a royal decree.  Maybe it was.  He swung himself into his saddle.  Will drew a breath, held it, then let it out with a slow nod.

“All right.  France.  ’S’far enough away for me.”  He gave Gisburne a narrow-eyed glare, then spread his hands in a gesture of reluctant acceptance.  “I still say we should kill ’im, but France’ll do.  At a pinch.”

“What if,” Guy demanded abruptly, “I don’t want to go to France?”

“What, scared of a little boat trip, are you?”  Scarlet, whose own experience of Channel crossings had involved clutching the gunwale and throwing up everything he’d eaten for a week, grinned nastily.

“No, I …”

“If not France, or Normandy, then Austria.”  Nasir cut Gisburne off, his tone both indifferent and absolute, as if he were supremely disinterested in what the young nobleman might or might not want.  “Or, if you would be warmer, Rome perhaps, or _al-Andalus_.  If you would be colder, Robin suggested Scotland, but I do not think that is far enough.”  He shrugged as if he didn’t much care.  “Scotland is close, and who can say that your King John will not turn his gaze northward once he has finished with his Welsh rebellion?  Best for you, I think, if the king does not see your face again, or even hear your name.”

Gisburne, who had not expected a lesson on statecraft from an outlawed Saracen, found he could only nod.  “No.  Not Scotland.”

“Or,” Nasir said slowly, almost reluctantly, “if not France, there is Palestine.  What you Franks call ‘Outremer’.”

“Take the Cross, you mean?”

Nasir’s eyes were unwavering and utterly opaque.  He looked down at Gisburne from where he sat his horse and said nothing at all.  Will let out a low whistle.

“Wouldn’t do it if I were you, Guy.  Place’ll be full of his sort,” he warned lightly, jerking his head towards Nasir.  “All silent and intense and not pleased to see you at all.  And nothing to drink worth a damn, I can promise you that.”

Nasir turned his head to look at Will.  “They say,” he said, in a slow and deliberate tone, “that pilgrimage is good for the soul.  Perhaps, Scarlet, if he goes, you might join him.”

Setting his horse’s head to the road, he let the others follow as they would.

 

They were heading, the Saracen had finally told them as he veered their course northward, for the port of Grimsby on the Humber.  There were other ports at the Wash, but they were further away and the vast stretch of the fens stood in the way.  In the summer, the fens were merely awkward, a distraction for travellers.  In late autumn, with the rivers that fed them high and the land wet and unsteady, they could be downright dangerous.  The way to Grimsby would take them by the edge of the fens, and into the marsh country further to the north, but that was still better than slogging through sedge and sleeping in the damp. 

Gisburne, who had never trusted boats, was uncertain.  He had endured his previous trips across the Channel with poor grace, and they had been taken in fair weather on good vessels with God’s blessing upon them.  If he took ship at Grimsby, he would have half the coast of England to navigate in the Devil knew what leaking tub before they even got to the Channel.  And men died making that crossing, particularly out of season.  Even kings and king’s sons had been brought down by storms at sea.  Hell’s teeth, everyone knew that the Plantagenets would never even have come to the throne of England if it hadn’t been for a spire of rock in a storm-tossed harbour mouth and a half-drunk helmsman.

The Saracen was clearly not in a pleasant frame of mind this morning.  The gaze he turned on Gisburne as the man rode up beside him was like black ice.  Gisburne, who had faced those eyes before over an intricate web of steel, felt his hands go cold and swallowed.  He hoped the other man would not notice that, but then the Saracen’s eyes flickered – in irritation?  Contempt? – and Gisburne knew that he had.  God curse him.

“Why Grimsby?”  That came out more gruffly than Gisburne had intended.  It made him sound confrontational, he knew, which was not a good thing with the Saracen fully armed and in what looked like a killing mood (and Guy rather suspected that if he tried to seize a weapon or spur his horse away today, his reprimand would be more brutal – and possibly more permanent – than only a heavy-handed cuff around the ears) but he knew no other way to ask.  He pressed on.  “It’s all herring and wool traders.  It would be easier to find passage to the south.”

“The cinque ports?”  Nasir lifted an eyebrow and grunted.  Gisburne was surprised to hear the man name them so easily; clearly he was more familiar with this country than Guy gave him credit for.  “No.  Too far.  Too great a risk.”

Alongside, Will made a derisive, sputtering sound.  He was on foot, having refused to take a turn ahorse.  “Dover?  Hythe?  You must be joking.  Take us bloody weeks to get there.  D’you think we like your company that much?”

“No one’s keeping you here, wolfshead.”

“Stop calling me that, pig.  You know my name.”

“I do.  Scathlock.  Murderer.”  There was a deliberate sneer in that.  Will bristled, turning and reaching for his knife.  Nasir kicked his horse between Gisburne and Scarlet.

“Do not.  Either of you.”  He didn’t raise his voice at all, but the dead tone he used was more menacing than any amount of shouting.  Guy, who was very used to being shouted at, found himself wondering how this man’s lethal calm would fare against de Rainault in one of his rages and decided that the calm was more frightening.  With de Rainault, everything was sound and fury, like a storm; one only need duck for shelter and wait things out.  With the Saracen, he thought, there would be no storm; only a rumble of warning and then lightning from a clear sky.

Will subsided with a surly curse, turning his back and striding on ahead of the horses.  Nasir watched him briefly, then turned to Gisburne.

“Why bait him?  Do you want so badly to die?  Is your life worth so little to you?”

Guy opened his mouth to say something scathing on the theme of jumped-up wolfsheads who thought they could defeat a trained knight, but to his horror

_(What’s your life worth, Gisburne?)_

_(Nothing!)_

what came out was something completely different.  What came out was, God help him, honest.

“What life?  My estates are forfeit, I have no income and no sponsor, the king wants my head, and de Rainault’s stolen my bloody horse.  What’s left?  Tell me that, man.  What’s left?”

Guy was appalled at the words, and at the fraught, desperate sound of his own voice, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself.  It must, he decided, have been some residual madness caused by all those blows to the head; next thing he would be crying like a girl.  He snapped his jaw shut with a click, made himself stare straight ahead, and willed the Saracen to confine himself to a scornful glance and ride on.  Instead, Nasir looked at him for a long and careful time, and then replied: “You.”

“What?”

“You are left.  Yourself, your own man.  You are alive and you are free for perhaps the first time in your life.”  Nasir spoke slowly, thoughtfully.  “Free of duty, of obligation, of service to another’s will.  What choices you make now will be your own.  Understand that.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Guy said, in a tight, strained voice.  He didn’t look around.  “I’m noble born; I’ve always been a free man.”

 The Saracen cast him a derisive look and did not speak.  Gisburne, hating himself, found that his hands were clenched so tight they ached, and there was a pressure in his chest that made his heart shudder and beat like the wings of a trapped bird.  A part of him understood perfectly what

(a second chance)

he had been told.  The rest of him wanted to wail.  All the world was changing, and he was caught in the middle, same unworthy, unwanted creature he always had been.

Something about that was bluntly, blackly terrifying.

 

Gisburne, Nasir had to concede as the morning wore on, was not entirely what he had expected.  He was very young, for one thing.  In an intellectual way, Nasir had been aware of that, registering the youth of the man’s face and bearing, his energy and impulsive anger, but he had not actually thought of it before.  That, Sarak would have told him, was careless; if Gisburne was an enemy worthy of the name, then Nasir should have made more effort to understand him.  A man should always know who – and what – his enemies were. 

You are right, of course, my brother.  Careless.

He had known, he supposed, that Gisburne was a twisted creature: tied up and tangled and turned away from any straight path.  That was clear in his actions, in his viciousness and his callous disregard for anyone weaker than himself.  Yet Nasir had never considered that Gisburne’s cruelty might run deeper.  He had never imagined that, in his heart and in his head, Gisburne might be as vicious towards himself as he had ever been to any serf.

It had been in the man’s eyes last night, hollow and hurt when he had spoken of his family and asked, in a voice that wanted to choke on itself, why anyone had come.  And it had been in his face, too, when he had spoken of all he had lost: a baffled, harrowed look, as of a dog that did not understand why it had been kicked, but expected nothing else.  If Gisburne had been miguided before, Nasir thought, at least he had some direction.  Now he was utterly lost.

That was something Nasir could understand.  He had walked those paths himself not so long ago, pledging his loyalty to a man who had made of his faith both a lie

_(Where nothing is true, everything is permitted)_

_(What does that even mean?)_

and a weapon.  He had seen that almost too late, fleeing the lie scant moments before he drowned in it, only to find himself without bearings or place in a strange land.  He understood captivity too, and knew what it did to a man’s head and to his soul.  The scars of his own enslavement had never quite healed; they still ached in the dark, even if only Rob

(Nasir, easy.  Wake up, it’s only a dream)

 knew that.  For a long time after de Belleme’s first death, he had felt like an over-sharpened blade, untrustworthy, flawed, likely to snap.  That, Nasir suspected, was where Gisburne’s new brittleness had come from: in his heart, the man was still trapped in a cell, still helpless and howling.  It was hardly a wonder if that made him feel like snapping as well.

As he watched the young man riding off to one side, fair head bowed and big, capable hands slack on the reins, Nasir could not help thinking that Gisburne should have been easier to hate than this.  Instead, unlikely and inappropriate as it was, Nasir realised he might even come to pity him.  Which made very little sense, given that this was the same man who had spent a good part of the last several years trying to kill those Nasir called friends and wreaking destruction on the unhappy villages that surrounded Sherwood.  But he was also Robert’s – Robin’s – brother, and adrift in a world grown suddenly too large, and somehow that made a difference.

Scarlet, on the other hand, was having no trouble despising the man.  But then, Scarlet had hating down to an art.  Nasir, who had always believed that unchannelled hatred was a waste of energy, was inclined to let Will use up all the gall he wanted, and if he wore himself out in doing so, so much the better.  The man might pick fewer fights that way.  Nasir was getting tired of ordering the two of them apart.

 

Shortly after midday, Scarlet stomped to a halt, took a long swig from his waterskin and announced that he was hungry. 

“We’ve been going all bloody morning.  Grimsby ain’t going nowhere.  Come on, Naz, I know I ain’t got no chance of a decent drink, but what you got left worth eating?”

Gisburne, who hadn’t said a word since his brief discussion with Nasir, reined in his horse and glanced to the Saracen.  He was as much a soldier as Scarlet had ever been; this morning had made it very clear to him who was in command here.  Nasir nodded once, signalled to Gisburne to dismount, and waited until the man was standing at his horse’s head to follow suit.  He had no doubt that his bay was quicker than the plodding dun, but even so, he had no intention of giving Gisburne a head start.

The Saracen pulled a sack from the back of his horse’s saddle and tossed it to Scarlet.  “Food.  No fire.  Watch Gisburne.  Do not kill.”  He turned hard eyes on the young knight.  “And you, behave.”  Taking the dun’s reins from Gisburne’s hand, he led the horses to a nearby bush so that Will stood between Guy and his mount.  Tethering the animals to graze, the Saracen paused and glanced once, warningly, at Gisburne and Will, then turned on his heel and strode away.  Gisburne narrowed his eyes.

“Where’s he going?”

“Prayers, most likely.”  Will hauled a half-wheel of hard cheese from the sack and wrinkled his nose at it.  “’S’about that time o’ day.  Not that he’ll go far, mind.  Don’t go getting any funny ideas.”  He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile, if smiles could be that hard, and that mocking.  “He’d be well pissed off to come back and find you dead.  Be a bloody shame, that would.”

“The Saracen gave you an order.  You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, you think so?  Let’s fucking try it and see, shall we?”  Will hefted his bow at Gisburne, jabbing the air viciously.  “I don’t take orders from him.  You even look like making a break for it and I’ll drop you where you stand.  Just give me a fucking reason.”

“Animal.”  Gisburne glared down his nose.  His hand had gone to his hip from long habit, looking for the sword that hadn’t hung there in months.  “You’re nothing but a bloody savage.”

“That’s right,” Will agreed, with that same hard, unpleasant smile.  “That’s me.”

Curling his lip in contempt, Gisburne spread his hands in a deliberate show of surrender.  “Then there’s nothing more to say, is there?”  He began to walk towards the horses.  Scarlet stopped him, not kindly, slapping his bow across Gisburne’s chest.

“What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?”

“I’m thirsty,” Guy said curtly.  “The skins are on the horse.  Get out of my way.”

“Oh-ho!”  Scarlet’s face seemed to light up, his eyes taking on a feral gleam.  It made him look almost infernal.  “Giving orders now, are we?”

Gisburne wondered how long the Saracen was going to be.  There was something unsatisfying about the idea of dying on the edge of a marsh at the hands of a maniac with a grudge all because of some ill-timed heathen ritual.  He said nothing.  Scarlet cast his bow aside and took a step closer, doing his best to loom in spite of the fact that Gisburne overtopped him by a head and a half.

“’Course, you’re used to giving orders, you are.  Used to people jumping to do what you say.  Peasants, serfs, anyone who can’t fucking answer back.”  Will’s eyes glittered dangerously.  “You and your kind, you got a lot to answer for, Gisburne.  You lot’ve made this country your playground and your money box.  Angevin bloody king, Norman bloody nobles, and no one gives a damn for what happens to us Englishmen so long as we fight your bloody wars, work your bloody fields, and pay your bloody taxes.  What’ve you got to say for yourself, hey?”

Guy blinked, as baffled as he was angered.  What else did the man think the English were good for?  “Someone has to keep order.  You rabble …”

“Rabble, are we?”

Guy gave the man his haughtiest look and repeated his unlamented so-called father’s favourite saying.  “Cattle must be driven.”

Will’s face had gone a very peculiar colour.  Snarling, he fumbled for his knife; Gisburne, who had no intention of waiting to be stabbed, swore wholeheartedly and lunged.

He hit Scarlet with his whole body, trapping the other man’s arms and bearing him to the ground.  Scarlet cursed and kicked, catching Gisburne in the knee and sending a flare of pain through his leg, but the knife stayed where it was, tangled in the outlaw’s tunic and in the clutch and grapple of their limbs.  Shifting his grip, Guy managed to get one forearm across Scarlet’s throat, pressing down hard enough to make him gargle and choke, but then Will turned his head and fastened his teeth into Gisburne’s shoulder.  Guy pulled away with a yell; Will flailed after him, clawing for the eyes, swinging hard.

Something solid and brutal slammed into Gisburne’s side, shoving him sharply away; something just as harsh caught Will above the ear and sent him tumbling backwards.  Nasir stood between the two of them, his expression murderous.  Guy hugged his ribs where the Saracen had kicked him, climbing carefully to his knees.  Will, half-stunned from being elbowed in the head, shook himself groggily and threw himself at Gisburne again.  Nasir caught him by the scruff and one wrist, jerked and lifted, and drove Will to his knees with his arm contorted painfully behind him.

“Sodding bloody _fuck!_   Get off me!  I’ll kill him!  I’ll fucking kill him!”

Nasir said nothing, only twisted the man’s arm further so that he bent double, face to the ground.  Will spat something breathless and vulgar and stopped struggling.  The Saracen nodded, as if that was what he had expected.

“Will you stop?”

“Get off me!”

“I told you, do not kill.”  Releasing the man, Nasir cuffed him hard about the head.  Gisburne made as if to stand; Nasir kicked him back down.

“You stay.  You listen.”  He was speaking to both of them, in a voice that sounded as if it could grind rocks into sand.  “If you will behave like unruly curs, I will treat you like unruly curs.  I will leash you both if I must, and teach you to obey, if you do not show some control.  You understand me?”

“The bastard attacked me,” Will growled sullenly.  He was still on his knees, rolling his injured shoulder.  “Man’s gotta defend himself.”

At the same time, Guy said, “He was going to draw a knife on me.”

Nasir raised a hand threateningly.  They both subsided, refusing to look at either each other or at the Saracen between them.  Nasir glared at the pair of them and muttered something savage and unfavourable in his native tongue.  In English, he said, “Eat.  Rest.  Then we move on.  And there will be no more trouble, or I will kill you both.”

Neither Gisburne nor Scarlet spoke for the rest of the day’s journey.  Nasir found that rather restful. 

 

If a few bruises and a slightly sprained arm were what it took to keep the peace, in Nasir’s opinion their latest clash had been worth it.  But he also knew that he would pay for it.  Gisburne might not retaliate – the man was used, Nasir thought, to being reprimanded – but Will would not take a beating lying down.  The man had stalked in silence all afternoon, off to one side of the horses, and when they stopped for rest he stayed on his own.  Nasir kept half an eye on him.  His weather sense had always been good; he could tell when there was a storm brewing.

They made camp that night in an abandoned hut on the fen-ward side of the Lincolnshire Edge, a great limestone scarp that ran almost from Newark to the Humber, with rolling grazing land above and canal-strewn marsh below.  The hut might have been a shepherd’s for summer grazing, or it might have been a fenman’s hide, thrown together as shelter when hunting waterfowl or cutting reeds.  It was a simple thing, only one room and a hearth, and built from thick bundles of sedge cut from the fens, but it was warm and well made.  The clear, still sky promised a cool night.  Decent walls and a fire were not to be passed up.

Guy was appalled at how tired he felt.  He had always prided himself on his endurance, but now he felt drained and worn.  He had been aching and weary for most of the day, was all the worse since the afternoon’s brief skirmish with Scarlet, and the last few miles had been torment.  He suspected the Saracen knew it; it was early to make camp, with the sun not even down, but the man had glanced at him and called a halt anyway.  Guy was grateful.  His knee felt stiff and swollen from where Scarlet had kicked it and his ribs were bruised and sore.  As for the bite on his shoulder, he only hoped that the wound was clean.  Scarlet was as mad as a wood hound, and Guy knew what happened to a man bitten by one of those.  He did not want to die staring-eyed and foaming.

He watched the Saracen go about the basic chores of setting camp: tending the horses, finding water, stoking a small fire.  Scarlet was still smouldering, glaring indiscriminately at everything from the doorway.  Gisburne gave him a cold glance and limped to where the Saracen had hung their supper: a trio of rabbits that the man had brought down that morning with quick efficiency and a swiftly thrown blade.  It wasn’t, Guy told himself, that he had any great urge to make himself useful.  He was hungry, that was all.

“I’ll take care of these, if you like,” he announced, surprised at how gruff his voice sounded after half a day of silence.  The Saracen looked at him and nodded.

“My thanks.”  Nasir paused, and then his hand went to his belt and he tossed something small and narrow to Gisburne.  “You will need that.”

A knife.  Very small, its blade not even as long as the palm of Guy’s hand, but still a knife.  Gisburne tried to remember the last time he had held decent steel and decided that it was the day he had been flung into Newark gaol.  He struggled not to stare.

Scarlet said, “No.”

“Will.”  Nasir turned to him with a staying gesture.  “There is no harm.”

“You give that bastard a weapon, and I’ll know you’ve gone over.  Or gone mad.  One or the other.”  Scarlet’s jaw jutted challengingly.  “So which is it, Naz?  You mad, or just a sodding traitor?”

Gisburne raised his head in alarm.  He’d heard men make idle threats before, but there was nothing idle in Will’s tone.  He wondered what would happen next, and how a skinning knife less than half a handspan long could get him out of it.  Sweet Christ, if there was going to be a fight, why hadn’t the Saracen given him a better knife?

“Will.”  Nasir’s voice was very calm.  He sighed, glanced at Gisburne, and then shrugged and stepped to the door.  He had known this was coming, and Will had been brooding all day.  Best to get it over with.  He gestured outside.  “Come.”

“And leave him here, armed?”

“Barely.”  Nasir gestured again.  “Outside.  Come.”  He stepped past Will and out into the settling day.

Will snarled and grumbled, but he followed.  Once they were a little away from the hut, he growled, “Damn you, Nasir, what the fuck are you playing at?”

“You truly think me a traitor?”  Nasir asked it without accusation or defences, as if he really wanted to know.  “Truly?”

“Oh, Hellfire.”  Will made a face and sighed, reluctant.  “No.  But by God, you got a lot of bloody explaining to do.  Letting him wander about loose like he’s your fucking lap dog, giving him a knife.  Damn near breaking my arm.”

Nasir nodded.  “I did as I thought necessary.  I am sorry for your arm.”

“No you’re not.”  Will’s lips twisted, somewhere between aggravation and acknowledgement.  “I’m not a fool, Naz.  I know you did what you had to.  I don’t understand what’s going on here, or why Robin wants that piece of dogshit in there alive, but I know he’s given you your orders and you’ll bloody die seeing that they’re carried out.  I know that.”

Nasir tipped his head, non-committal.  That wasn’t quite true – there were no orders between him and Rob, and he wasn’t willing to die for any of this – but it was what Will understood.  He waited for the rest.

“I know that,” Will repeated and scrubbed a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration.  His eyes flashed angrily under lowered brows.  “But God’s Bollocks man, you could quit treating me like some green as grass recruit and show me some fucking respect.”

Nasir drew a deep breath and schooled himself not to mention Will’s lack of control, his refusal to listen, his complete disregard for discipline.  “As you say.” 

“Right.”  Will folded his arms and nodded, satisfied.  “Good.  So, now we got some business to see to.  You want to do this with swords or fists?”

Rolling his eyes would have been a bad thing.  Nasir avoided it by pure strength of mind.  _Ya Allah_ , why did this man always want to finish everything with a brawl?  “Will, no.”

“What?  You think I’m going to let you set me on my arse – _twice_ – and not want to set the ledger straight?”  Will gave him that predator’s smile.  “Not likely, Nazzy mate.”

“I do not want to fight you.”

“That’s too bad, because I’ve got a score or two to settle.”

Nasir nodded, then, in three swift movements, he had shed his weapons and stood unarmed in front of Will, head high.  “Settle it, then.”

Will paused, taken aback.  “What?  You just going to stand there?”

“Yes.”  The Saracen did not move.  Will frowned.

“You’re not going to fight back?”

“No.”

“And I’m just supposed to hit you?”

“If you wish it.”

For a moment Will hesitated.  He glared, then shook his head and muttered, “Right, then.  If that’s how you want it.”  Raising his fists, he advanced.  Nasir did not flinch, or lower his gaze.  Will clenched his jaw and drew back one fist, cocked and ready … then let out a hard breath and dropped his hands and swore.

“Oh, sodding hell, Naz, I’m not going to do this.”  He swung one callused hand to clasp Nasir’s shoulder, heavy and warm.  “You’re a mad bastard, you are.  You’d really have let me hit you?”

Nasir reached for his weapons, slinging the harness over his shoulder.  He was more than a little glad that Will had remembered himself; the man had very hard hands.  “Yes.  If it would settle your ledger.”

“It wouldn’t.  And you were right before, anyway.  I deserved a clip around the ears.”  Will grinned, unrepentant.  “Always was an unruly bastard.  Used to give my officers fits.”

“I am sure.”  Dry as sand, that.  Will laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder again.

“Right.  Let’s see if Gisburne’s got our supper started.”  Taking a couple of steps towards the hut, Will turned and pointed a warning finger at Nasir.  “But if we go in there and he jumps us with that sorry little knife you gave him, you’re on your own.  I hope he stabs you first.”

“He will not.”

Will laughed.  “Not if he knows what’s good for him, hey?  And, Naz?”

Nasir hoped Will was not going to talk all night.  “Hmm?”

“Just so you know, when you said you’d kill us both?”  Will waved a hand dismissively, eyes sparkling.  “I didn’t believe a word of it.”

“Hmm.”  This time Nasir did roll his eyes.  Franks.  All mad.  All.

 

Whatever had happened between the two outlaws, Guy thought, it had dispersed a good deal of tension from the air.  Scarlet still looked at him as if he were something nasty he’d stepped in, but the killing look had gone from his eyes.  As for Nasir, Guy had to admit he was surprisingly civilised, for a Godless savage.  The man was fair, at least.  He might punish transgressions with ruthless efficiency, but he gave credit where it was due as well.  He had even thanked Guy for the rabbits he had cooked, spitted on sticks over a low fire.  Gisburne was a little unsettled at how much he had appreciated that.

The Saracen had taken the little knife back, too – though not before Gisburne had managed to use it to shave and trim his hair.  He felt better for it; the beard had itched monstrously, for a start.  As for the knife, Guy told himself it was no great loss.  It was a skinning knife, that was all – hardly fit for anything but preparing food and whittling arrow shafts – but it had felt good to have honest steel in his hands again, small though the blade was.  After so many years a soldier, being without a weapon made him feel almost naked.

Now the Saracen was sitting cross-legged near the door, one of his fine swords across his lap, stroking a small whetstone along the edge of the blade.  Earlier, he had stepped outside to take care of whatever strange rituals he followed, and Guy had watched Scarlet from the corner of his eye and hoped that the man would keep his fists to himself; he did not feel up to another sparring match tonight.  But Scarlet had only given him a dark look and bundled himself in a blanket he’d found in one corner of the room.  When the Saracen returned, Scarlet had growled, “You make sure you truss him up, Naz.  I don’t fancy being stabbed in my sleep.”  Clearly any thoughts of stabbing had not been enough to keep the outlaw awake; the low rasp of his snoring could attest to that.

The hiss and scrape of the whetstone on steel was somehow strangely comforting.  Gisburne shook his head at that, bemused.  Not so long ago, if anyone had told him he would find solace in the sight of Hood’s pet Saracen tending his blades, he would have called them mad.

Nasir noticed him watching.  He raised his chin in acknowledgement.

“What coin is left from your passage, you will take.  You will need to arm yourself.”

A good sword was expensive.  Gisburne nodded.  He gestured at the Saracen’s weapons.  “Good steel.  Damascene?”

“Yes.” 

“I thought it must be.”  Gisburne eyed the sword almost hungrily.  He had heard tell of Damascus steel, worked by masters into blades of almost legendary quality.  Old Sir Geoffrey, for whom Guy had squired, had claimed to have once seen a Damascene sword slice clean through a knight’s great helm so swiftly that the man wearing it took three steps before he knew he was dead.  Guy didn’t know how true that was, but it made a good tale.  “I’ve never seen Damascus steel before.”

“In England?  No surprise.”  Nasir slipped the whetstone into his pouch and took out a worn silk cloth, polishing the grained steel.  Gisburne watched him, biting down on his lip, unsure.  Almost in spite of himself, he spoke.

“Could I … maybe …?”

A raised eyebrow answered that, sardonic in the firelight.  Gisburne scowled and slumped back, muttering, “No, of course not.  Stupid thing to say.”

It was interesting, Nasir thought, how utterly Gisburne’s face could change.  When he had forgotten himself long enough to lower his guard over the sword, his light eyes had been clear, hopeful.  The moment he thought he had been rebuffed, though, he had coiled in on himself, his face going hard, his eyes shuttered.  Now he sat with his head down and his gaze averted, as if expecting some scornful rebuke and determined not to show that he cared.  Nasir’s lips tightened at that.  Clearly this boy’s teachers had a good deal to answer for.

“Here.”  The Saracen made up his mind in an instant, proffering the blade hilt first.  Guy started and looked around, wide-eyed in surprise.  For a moment he only stared, and then reached for the sword only for the other man to pull it away in warning.  “You may see,” Nasir said.  “But if you try to use, I will take your hand off at the elbow.”  He raised his second sword, making his point clear.  “You understand?”

Damascus steel would slice through bone with barely a pause.  Gisburne swallowed and nodded.  He understood perfectly.

The curving sword was shorter than he was used to, but light and alive in his hand.  The balance was exquisite, perfect.  Examining the blade in the dull glow of the fire, Gisburne could see the waves of pattern in the grain, where the swordsmith had folded and forged and folded again. The whole thing sang, as utterly complete and true in itself as a diving falcon or a galloping horse.  Guy breathed out softly, almost reverently.  His expression, unguarded, was close to wonder.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.”  The Saracen was watching him closely, his second blade at ease but ready to strike.  “As is anything that is true to its purpose.” 

True to its purpose.  Guy frowned.  “Explain.”

Nasir looked thoughtful.  He might have been searching for the words, or he might have been surprised that Guy had asked.  Either way, it was a moment before he spoke.

“The sword is beautiful because it does not fight what it is.  It has a purpose, and it serves it.  It is simple, pure.”  He made a complicated gesture with his free hand.  “A man may have a purpose too, but sometimes men do not accept.  Men fight what they are, lose their paths, and fail.”  Nasir’s gaze had shifted, gone distant, looking past Gisburne and the blade the man cradled in his hands to ghosts that Guy couldn’t see, but then he seemed to recall himself.  With a small, inward smile, he tipped his head to the blade.  “The sword knows itself,” he said again.  “We can learn from that, perhaps.” 

Guy said nothing.  The sword in his hands glimmered inscrutable and sure, above question.  Something in Gisburne resented that, even as he recognised its truth.  This was soulless steel, but even so it was truer in path and purpose than Guy had ever been.  Guy didn’t know what his purpose was, or even if he had one at all. 

Nasir, who had suspected that this was true, heard an admission in what the young nobleman did not say, and let the silence linger.  After a moment, he drew a deep breath, let it out, and raised his chin, indicating the sword Gisburne held.

  “Enough.  Give.”  He made a small beckoning motion with his free hand; Gisburne sighed and reversed the blade, letting the hilt fall into the other man’s palm.  Nasir took it and ran the polishing cloth over it again before putting the weapon away.

“What would it cost?  A blade like that?” Gisburne wanted to know, as much for something to say as for any other reason.  Nasir shrugged.

“I do not know, in truth.  These were given to me.”  The man paused and frowned, as if dissatisfied with his words.  He tried again.  “Earned by me, perhaps, is more true.  But a good sword, a good horse, is maybe the same.”

The black destrier that Guy had lost to de Rainault’s greed and treachery had cost the best part of a year’s income.  Gisburne had had to borrow to buy him, and pay it back with interest, but even so the animal had been worth every shilling.  There was no way he could afford the same sort of money for a sword.  Or for anything, for that matter.  He supposed he should be thankful he was not begging for alms in the street. 

Rubbing at his stiff knee – Scarlet kicked like a mule, God curse him – Gisburne considered his situation.  Leaving England was no loss; it was not as if there were anything here to keep him.  He only wished that what was ahead of him was not quite so completely unknown.  He was not used to flailing; he did not know how to find his way in the dark.  All of his life, people had told him what

(brat squire knight gamekeeper steward whipping-boy fool)

he was, what to do, what to think.  He had resented that, always, but he had taken some comfort in it too.  At least he had known what was expected of him.  The idea of having to decide those things for himself brought Gisburne out in a cold sweat.  As for whatever the Saracen had meant with his talk of beauty and truth, Guy told himself he did not care.  He should know better than to listen to infidel heresies.  Nor did he have any intention of feeling inferior to a sword, even one of such quality.  There were enough things in the world that he was inferior to without bowing his neck to that as well.

Best not to think of such things.  With a conscious effort, Guy turned his thoughts aside, focussing instead on what lay before him.  Perhaps, if he looked at it all one thing at a time, it would not seem quite so vast.

“How long until we reach Grimsby?”  Guy had some idea where Grimsby was, but he had never come this way before.  Had he been travelling of his own accord, he would have stuck to the roads and known ways, but the Saracen seemed to have a peculiar dislike of marked paths; since dawn, he had gone out of his way to avoid them, and any villages and hamlets they might have found along the way.  It made it difficult for a man to know where he was.  Scarp and swamp and open sky were imprecise landmarks, in Guy’s opinion.

Nasir hitched one shoulder in a vague answer.  “Grimsby is not far.  For us, a day’s travel, perhaps.  We go slowly.”

Well, so they would with Scarlet on foot and determined to stay that way.  And, Guy had to admit, he was not at his best either.  He was glad the Saracen did not seem inclined to rush.  If he had had to do this at a forced march in his current condition, he’d have arrived in Grimsby looking like something that had been used hard and put away wet.  He nodded, slowly.

“And you’re taking me to France.”

“Sending.  I do not go with you.”  There was a faint undertone of amusement in that, to match the gleam of Nasir’s eyes in the firelight.  Guy did not laugh.  He furrowed his brow instead, staring into the flames.  His voice, when it came, was pitched low and quiet.

“What am I going to do?”  It sounded almost as if Gisburne was speaking to himself.  But then he looked up, fixing Nasir with a demanding stare, and repeated his question in a harder, insistent tone.  “What will I do?”

Nasir cast the man a mildly exasperated look.  Did Gisburne think he was an oracle, to know the future?  “You will do as you choose,” he said.  “You will begin again.” 

“With what?”

“With yourself,” Nasir replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  Hadn’t he already said this?  “You fight well, you ride well.  You can steward an estate.  You will find service, or sell your sword.  Or,” he added, thinking of Rob’s charming scapegrace cousin, “there are tourneys, and reputations to be earned.”

Gisburne felt something in him shift, yearning towards that.  He choked it off ruthlessly before it could make a fool of him, and made a rude noise.  “Tourneys.  All those puffed-up idiots playing at war.  If I’m going to risk getting my head knocked off, it’ll be for the real thing.” 

It wasn’t true, of course.  Guy had considered the tourney circuit, before de Rainault had given him what had seemed like better options.  He had considered it since then too, for the accolades as much as anything else: after years of the sheriff’s sharp-tongued jibes, it would have been good to be lauded for something.  There was money to be earned on the tourney field too – modest sums for the most, but a man with a good eye for horseflesh could make that stretch further.  A tourney knight, though, needed kit that Gisburne didn’t have: a decent horse, well-made armour, more weapons than only his hands.  Right now, riding in the lists seemed as likely to Guy as being crowned King of Spain.

Nasir sighed inwardly and suppressed a scowl.  Gisburne’s words might have been scornful, but he had seen the flicker of doubt and wanting in the young man’s eyes and recognised in his voice the habit that Gisburne had of cutting himself down before others could do it for him.  He was going to have to stop doing that, Nasir thought, if he was to survive.  A man who could not have faith in himself could have faith in nothing at all.  Nasir, whose faith was the greatest constant in his life, found that thought appalling.  Even so, he could not argue with Gisburne’s words, as much as he deplored their motivation.  There were worse ways than success on a tourney field for a knight of some prowess to earn himself a name and a sponsor, but Nasir had never had much time for playing at fighting.  He had grown to manhood surrounded by war of one kind or another; he hardly needed to go looking for weak imitations to prove himself against.  Franks, it seemed to him, did not even know enough to enjoy peace when they had it.  And in any case, it was not his task to tend to Gisburne’s future.  He shrugged, unconcerned.

“So then. Not tourneys.  But you have skills.  You will not starve.”

“I’m used,” Gisburne grated out, “to following orders.”

“Then,” Nasir said with maddening sense, “you must become used to being the one who gives them.  For, after Grimsby, there will be only you.”

“This could kill me, you know that?”

Nasir laughed, quietly and a little cruel.  “Newark would have killed you.  This is a chance.”

“You don’t think I deserve it.”  That was not a question.  Gisburne’s tone was somewhere between accusation and anger.  Nasir looked at him, expression unreadable.

“Do you?” 

(worthless cur tainted bastard worthless)

And Guy found that he had no answer for that at all.

 

The dawn broke with sheeting rain and a black belly of cloud overhead.  The weather did nothing to allay Scarlet’s temper; mornings left him cranky at the best of times, and finding that Gisburne had been unbound all night had only served to make him worse.  The fact that Nasir had taken the whole of the night’s watch upon himself and let Will sleep right through did not help; at this hour of the day, Scarlet did not even have the presence of mind to be grateful.  Gisburne was only glad the man had not seen him handling the Saracen’s Damascene sword the night before.  Scarlet would probably have killed him on the spot.  Or had an apoplectic fit.  One or the other.

Will refused to go anywhere in the rain.  Nasir, who didn’t care if it was raining or not, looked at Guy and raised his brows.  Gisburne shrugged.

“I’d prefer to stay dry.  Your friend FitzRoy didn’t see fit to provide me with a rain mantle.”

“What?  Are we taking votes now?”  Will scowled, apparently unmoved to find Gisburne agreeing with him.  “I said I’m not going.  You bastards can do what you like.”

“We stay,” Nasir said mildly.  “I will check the horses.”

Outside, a chill wind was gusting, slinging the rain sidelong so that it needled against Nasir’s face.  Reminding himself that rain was the gift of Allah to all men did not make it any less cold.  The horses, wise creatures, had swung their broad hindquarters into the wind and stood hipshot and patient, heads down.  Moving them further into the lee of the hut was the work of moments, and he made them secure quickly, wanting to get back inside before there was trouble; leaving Scarlet alone with Gisburne was like leaving a lit lantern in a stable full of dry hay.  At least the two of them had managed not to kill each other when he had slipped away for his dawn prayers.  Nasir hoped that was a good sign.  He could do without another day like the last.  Truly, if they had been dogs, he would have doused the pair of them in cold water and muzzled them both.

Nasir had been surprised at himself, last night.  If Robin had suggested he might let Gisburne handle one of his blades, he would have thought him mad.  If he had also said that they would discuss philosophy over that blade, he would have laughed out loud.  And yet last night he had done both, even if Gisburne did not understand half of what he was being told.  Rob would have understood, Nasir thought.  Rob, for all his Christian faith and pagan leanings, knew about the grace in submitting to a will greater than his own.  Gisburne only understood submission as an ugly thing, to be forced by the strong on the weak.  Hardly a wonder, then, if the sword had confused him.

Even so, there had been some flickers of hope.  Gisburne could still recognise beauty when he saw it; he was not damaged utterly beyond repair.  He could even – almost – be civil, when he forgot to be himself.  Nasir had not lied when he had told the man that he had skills, that he would find himself a place and a path.  He only hoped that Gisburne – for Rob’s sake – had the sense to make better choices this time.  Because as much as Robin might deny it, he would always care what this man did and what became of him.  Brotherhood, Nasir had cause to know, could do that in spite of everything.  His own brothers, both those of the spirit and those of the blood, had been able to drive him verily to distraction, and none of them had been as troublesome as Gisburne.  Not even the ones that had periodically tried to kill him.

Slipping back inside the hut, Nasir found his companions steadfastly ignoring each other.  Or perhaps not quite ignoring: Will was sharpening the larger of his knives with a certain malicious intensity, and Gisburne was determinedly looking away, staring into the small fire he had stoked.  Scarlet gave Nasir a smile as edged as the knife he was working on.

“Don’t fret, Naz.  There’s not a scratch on him.”

In response to that, Nasir dipped his head in almost a bow.  His expression was more than a little sardonic.  “Indeed,” he said.  “ _Alhamdulilah_.”

“What?”  Gisburne glared at the Saracen suspiciously.  Will gave a nasty laugh.

“He’s thanking God I didn’t kill you yet.”  The outlaw lifted his knife and spun it in his fingers.  “Either that or he’s calling you a whoreson bastard.  I never did get my head around that curly language of his.”

Nasir shot Scarlet an unfavourable look.  “I offer praise to Allah that you showed sense, Will.  For surely, that numbers amongst His miracles.”

Guy snorted and looked away, hiding a laugh.  Will glowered.

“Oh, very funny.  Smart bastard, aren’t you?”

Nasir did not bother to answer.  Shaking the last of the rain out of his hair, he crossed the small room and lifted Will’s cast-off blanket, wrinkled his nose and decided that he would do better without.  Some vermin he could not avoid, but he had no great desire to go looking for more.

“I will sleep,” he announced.  “Be quiet.  Do not kill.  When the rain eases, we leave.”

If Will and Gisburne did anything but sit in silence for the next three hours, Nasir never knew.

 

The land, already wet and green with the autumn rains, had turned in places to half a quagmire with the morning’s downpour.  It made travelling slow work, with the horses stumbling on treacherous ground and Will sinking up to his ankles in mud and swearing with every second step.  Grimsby, Gisburne recalled, lacked walls, its people reckoning the town protected well enough by the Humber estuary on one side and the marsh that spread around it on the other.  Right now, he was inclined to think they were right.

Gisburne had spent the morning trying to understand exactly what he was doing here.  He still was not sure what was worse: that de Rainault, to whom he had given his allegiance, had betrayed him so savagely, or that he had been rescued by wolfsheads.  The outlaws had no reason to want him to live – and yet, in spite of all the hatred and bloodshed that lay between them, they had come to his aid when no one else would.  It made no sense; they were not even Norman.  Even Huntingdon’s disgraced brat was of dubious blood, with his wild Scottish heritage marring his clean Norman lines.  They could have no reason to consider him kindly, but, maddenly, they had done just that.  Thinking about it was making Gisburne’s head ache.

It had occurred to Guy, somewhere in the long dark of his imprisonment and on this journey that had followed, that he had been, all his life, a wretched judge of character.  For all the oaths he’d sworn to this lord or that – Chester, the brothers de Rainault, even Gulnar and his mad wolf god – he had never been well-served by them.  An oath of allegiance should go both ways, after all: a man’s sworn lord had a duty of care.  Then again, perhaps he deserved no better.  As tainted as he was,

_(stop your whining brat)_

how could he aspire to more?  Anything that might have been truly noble in him had long ago been

(fucked)

thrashed out of him at his father’s hands, and he knew it.  Inside, he was still the same worthless rag his father had used and thrown away, and a lifetime spent denying that had made no difference at all. 

But now he was being given a chance, an opportunity to begin his life again.  The Saracen, in his oblique, indifferent way, had seemed to believe that that was possible, that a man could be more than his past and rise above even his blood, if he only found his path and followed it.  Guy wondered if the man would still think that if he knew what stains lay on his battered soul, what secrets he carried in the places he hoped no one would ever see.  Some things, he had always been taught, were beyond redemption.  Perhaps, though, he had been taught wrong.  Perhaps he could be someone else, after all.

The lurch and slide of his horse sinking up to its hocks jolted Gisburne out of his thoughts.  With a muttered curse, he reined the beast back from the boggy edge of one of the many flooded waterways that criss-crossed the marshes, guiding it to firmer ground.  Scarlet grunted, moving aside to give the horse space and glaring at the sweep of muddy water in front of him.  There was no getting across that short of outright swimming.  The dun gelding shook its head and snorted unhappily.  Scarlet grimaced in disgust.

“My thoughts exactly.  Naz, how far does this sodding swamp go?”

The Saracen shrugged, made a minimal gesture towards the north.  “Grimsby.”

“Oh, well, that’s great, that is.”  Scarlet scowled, finding a comparatively dry hummock of turf and pulling off his boots to empty them out.  Dirty brown water ran from them as he tipped them up; his feet had been sodden since leaving the hut.  “Another day of marching through swill.  If I catch my death out here, it’ll be your bloody fault.”

Guy could not bring himself to even pretend sympathy for that; Scarlet was not, in his opinion, a man who engendered much in the way of pity.  Nasir, though, rubbed a hand over his neatly trimmed beard with a frustrated growl and swung down from his horse.  He thrust the reins at Will.

“Here,” he said.  “I will scout ahead and find a better path.  You stay.  Yes?”

For a fleeting moment, Gisburne considered clapping his heels to the dun’s flanks and making a run for it.  The thought did not last long; the horse would struggle in this bog and most likely fall, and Guy was not in the habit of putting horses at risk, even staid old nags like this one.  Nor was he that keen on breaking his own neck, or being drowned in a puddle, pinned under his panicked mount.  And in any case, there seemed little point; even if he did leave the outlaws behind, he would still need passage to France, and the Saracen had all the coin.  No, it was best to stay where he was.  Even Scarlet’s unpleasant companionship was better than being stranded without resources in a port town full of foreign sailors.

Gisburne watched as the Saracen disappeared around a bend in the watercourse, hidden by a bank of thick sedge.  The man had not bothered with warnings or reproaches beyond a single level look; clearly, he was not in the mood for wasting his breath.  Scarlet, who could not boast the same, favoured Gisburne with a wolfish grin.

“He didn’t tell me not to kill you, this time,” he pointed out.  “Think he’s getting sick of your company, Guy?”

Gisburne said nothing, though it grated to hear a lowborn English peasant so deliberately making free with his name.  His horse flickered its ears uneasily; Guy gave it a reassuring pat.  He spoke to it softly in _langue d’oil_ , as he always spoke to his horses.  Somehow, for horses, only the language of his childhood would do.  Lord Edmond had raged at him for hiding away in the stables like a dung-sweeper’s brat, but at least the horses were always glad to see him and never

(stop, my lord, you’ll kill him)

caused him pain.  “I know.  I’m not impressed, either _._ ”

“Stop bloody jabbering.”  Scarlet’s eyes had gone hard.  “This is England.  You want to belong here, you speak English like the rest of us.”

“I have no intention of belonging here,” Gisburne snapped.  “And I’ll be pleased to see the back of this place.  If Duke William, God rest his soul, had known what an obstreperous bunch of malcontents you English are, he’d never have crossed the Channel in the first place.”

“Well, that would’ve saved us all a lot of bother, wouldn’t it?”  Scarlet seemed to find that idea grimly satisfying.  “No stomping great Normans kicking around the place, sticking their noble noses in where they don’t sodding belong and making things a misery for the rest of us?  No armoured fucking mercenaries brought to our lands to rape and kill innocent women, steal our homes and take the fucking shirts off our backs?  Sounds all right to me.”

The bay horse, unnerved by Scarlet’s temper, tossed its head fretfully, pulling back on the reins.  Scarlet gave it a glare and jerked its head down.  “Stand still, you.”

“You’re frightening him,” Guy said curtly.  “Give him to me.  I’ll see to him.”

“What, so you can take to your heels and leave me standing out here looking the fool?”  Will snorted.  “What sort of idiot do you think I am?”

Guy did not answer that.  He hoped the Saracen would return soon.  At least he knew how to manage a horse. 

Both of the horses were behaving anxiously now, shuffling their feet and snorting to each other as if unsettled by something.  Guy frowned, looking about for some sign of what had upset them.  He doubted there would be wolves in country like this; even wolves preferred to keep their feet dry.  He supposed it might be a fox slinking through the marsh grass, or possibly the horses had caught wind of a carcass that had been swept into the watercourse – horses that were unused to battlefields did not like the scent of death. 

Will glanced at the horses, frowning, and away into the waving sedge, suddenly sharp-eyed.  He had lived the life of a hunted thing for long enough to sharpen any man’s instincts; he could recognise a warning when he was given one.  Tightening his grip on the bay’s reins, he looped them about his wrist.  He hissed at the horse in a low voice, half a growl.  “What have you caught wind of?”

“Maybe it’s the Saracen coming back.  Nasir.”

“No, they know him.”  Will glared into the bank of sedge that lined the waterway.  His hand went to his belt, easing free his knife.  Guy, unarmed, cursed under his breath and set his horse’s rear to the water to guard his back, scanning the grass for movement.

They were very good.  That was Guy’s first thought as the brigands broke cover, closer to them than they had a right to be.  There were not many of them that he could see: only four bedraggled and roughly-dressed fenmen, armed with what looked like duck spears and knives that might have been new when Charlemagne was a lad.  But they were quick and quiet, slipping through the sedge like eels, launching themselves on their quarry in a sudden rush.  Two of them sprang for Scarlet, one trying to wrench away the bay’s reins and the other jabbing at the outlaw with a light but wickedly sharp spear.  The other two charged straight for Guy.

Gisburne did not wait for them to come to him.  He might have been unarmed, but he was a knight, and battle-trained.  And he had a horse under him, such as it was.  Clapping his heels hard to the gelding’s flanks, he lashed sharply at its neck with the end of his reins, startling the animal into lunging forward, white-eyed and squealing.  The horse hit the closest of the fenmen with its shoulder, sending him sprawling; the other shouted in alarm and flung himself out of the way.  Hauling hard on the bit, Guy brought the lumbering dun around – the animal was honest, but slow and ill-schooled to battlefield manoeuvres – and sent it forward again, this time towards Scarlet’s attackers.

Will had managed to keep his grip on the bay’s reins and work himself around to put the water at his back, keeping both of the brigands in front of him.  The man with the spear was giving him some trouble, though; Scarlet had all he could do to turn the darting spearhead away.  The bay was beginning to panic, rolling its eyes and kicking out in fear.  The fenmen were calling to each other, their voices high and carrying like the cries of birds.

Gisburne drove his mount hard into the fray, aiming to trample the spearman underfoot.  The dun, though, had other plans.  Not a war horse, it balked and shied at the obstacle in its path, slewing sideways.  Guy swore and reined back hard, digging his heels sharply behind the animal’s girth.  Fury, battle-fit and trained for the field, would have come up on his haunches at that and launched forward, all iron-shod hooves and thick muscle; the dun only shuddered and surged against the bit.  Kicking one foot free of the stirrups, Guy swung his boot hard into the wide-eyed face of the spear-wielding fenman, feeling the man’s nose crush under the impact.  At the same time, his horse lurched to the side, slipping in the thick mud on the edge of the watercourse.  It collided with the hindquarters of the panicked bay, who squealed, braced, and leapt like a stag, dragging Scarlet and the last fenman into the water with it.

Leaping quickly from his horse, Gisburne hurled himself at the brigand whose nose he had broken, hauling the man up by the scruff and punching him hard in the side of the head.  The man fell like a sack of grain, his eyes showing white under his trembling eyelids.  His spear was nearby, light and feeble to Guy’s hands, but the point was keen enough.  It lanced through the man’s throat tidily, but when Gisburne tried to wrench it free, the point, caught in bone, snapped.  Clutching the shaft, Guy whirled, looking for more enemies.  The man he had run down with his horse was getting to his feet, pale and shaken, his arm hanging oddly like a bird’s broken wing.  Guy bellowed at him in his battlefield voice; the man took one look and fled into the swamp.  The remaining fenman, who had dived out of the way of Guy’s horse and had done nothing so far but wave his hands and shout, jumped the other way, into the water.  With a curse, Gisburne went after him … and stopped on the bank of the watercourse, staring in amazement.

Scarlet had gone mad.  That was the only explanation.  The outlaw had one of the fenmen by the head and seemed to be trying to wrench it off.  The fenman kept disappearing under the water with Scarlet flailing after him, howling obscenities that would have made a dockman blush.  Gisburne blinked.  It was really quite impressive.

“Cunting bloody fuck!  Arse-licking duck-fucking goat-wankers!  Get back here you sack of shit!  I’m going to rip your fucking balls off!”

The fenman seemed disinclined to obey.  He was struggling in the current, trying to make for the opposite bank.  His friend had already got that far and was shouting encouragement from the shore.  Scarlet had words for him too.

“And you can shut the fuck up, you fart-swallowing shit-rag!  I’ll tear your liver out and fucking feed it to you, you whore-sniffing bitch!”

The first fenman squawked in alarm as Scarlet caught him again, shoving him under in a boil of bubbles and colourful imprecations.  Guy, who had had to smother a grin at ‘fart-swallowing’, found ‘newt-screwing frog-fuckers’ simply too much.  Once he started laughing, it was ridiculously hard to stop, even when he looked up to see the Saracen standing over him, swords drawn.

“What happened?”  Nasir demanded, eyes going from the young nobleman apparently crippled with laughter on the ground to Will, who was still thrashing the unfortunate fenman about in the water like a hooked fish.  Guy took a breath and swiped at his watering eyes, trying to talk.

“He … we … they …”  It was no good.  Laughter overtook him again and he could only wave vaguely towards Will and the shivering horses.  “Duck-fuckers!”

Nasir stared at Gisburne in astonishment, then at Will still ranting and cursing in the water like a madman.  The bay horse, still up to its shoulders in the canal, whinnied unhappily and tried unsuccessfully to scramble up the steep bank.  Gisburne seemed to recover himself a little, but then Will roared something else obscene that Nasir didn’t understand, and Guy collapsed back into helpless hilarity.  Nasir glared at his companions, and at the dead man lying nearby, and put his weapons away.  Then, throwing up his hands in despair, he went to see to the horses with Guy’s breathless laughter ringing in his ears.

 

Gisburne hadn’t laughed so hard in all his life.  His ribs actually hurt from it.  He pressed one hand to them and sucked in an experimental breath, flinching happily at the low ache he felt beneath his fingers.  That made him start to chuckle, but he stifled it quickly lest his mirth sweep him away again.  If he laughed any more, he thought, he’d probably break something.  But _Scarlet_ …  Dear sweet Lord, he’d never heard someone called a festering arse-ulcer before.  The wolfshead, Gisburne decided, must have done his soldiering in some very interesting company.

Before him, the low fire was producing great wafting clouds of smoke as it burned.  Dry wood was difficult to find in this place; the Saracen had done well to scrape together even this much.  Guy’s borrowed tunic, soaked through while helping to pull the Saracen’s bay up the bank to safety, was spread over a low branching bush near to the fire, along with Scarlet’s sodden trews and jerkin.  Earlier, Will had stowed the verminous blanket from the fen hut in the dun’s saddle-roll and he was using it now as a make-shift tunic.  Guy couldn’t look at him without bubbles of laughter trying to push their way to the surface.  “Pox-faced turd-huggers,” he murmured to himself in approval and, grinning, bit down on his lip to keep from chuckling.  “Oh, God’s Blood, that’s good.”

Away from the fire, Nasir was rubbing down the miserable bay with handfuls of grass, glancing sidelong at Gisburne and smiling to himself every time the young man went off into another fit of laughter.  Will, who was seeing what supplies could be salvaged from the sodden ration sack that had been lashed to the rear of the bay’s saddle, was less amused.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he demanded.  “Did he get hit on the head or something?”

“No.”  In fact, so far as Nasir could tell, Will and Guy had both escaped the fight with only a few scratches between them.  The fenmen had not been so lucky.  A short distance from their camp laid the man whom Gisburne had stabbed through the throat, left where he had fallen.  Nor had the brigand with whom Will had been wrestling fared any better; Scarlet had eventually tired of tormenting the wretch and had bashed his head with a rock, leaving his body to float downstream.  Nasir did not believe that the fenmen’s companions would be back to attempt revenge but, heeding caution born of experience, he had briefly scouted the area around their campsite before allowing the others to stop and build a fire to dry off and warm up.  Now the Saracen slanted a bright-eyed, knowing look at Will and said, “Cock-gobbler?  What is this?”

“Ah.”  Will flashed him an unrepentant grin.  “If you don’t know, I’m not telling.  Wouldn’t want to corrupt your innocence, Naz.”

Nasir laughed quietly and went back to tending the horse, checking its fetlocks for signs of heat or swelling.  The animal turned its head to him, nickering softly against his neck; he whispered soothingly to it in Arabic.

Will said, “Naz.”

The former soldier’s tone was carefully restrained, almost conspiratorial.  It was unlike him.  His control brought Nasir’s head up, wary, catching his attention more than Will’s usual bellowing ever could.  Will was looking at Gisburne, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  “Naz, look at his back.”

It took Nasir a moment to see what Will was talking about.  The scars were old and very faint, mostly overshadowed by the ugly pucker of a healed puncture wound beneath the young man’s shoulder blade, where a crossbow bolt at close range had nearly killed him.  Marion had done that, in the days before the fire had gone out of her.  As to who had caused the others …  They were thin, like lash marks, fine silvery runnels against Gisburne’s pale skin.

“Someone’s worked him over proper.  You don’t get marked up like that from walking through brambles,” Will observed in a low voice.  Nasir nodded slowly.

“Those are old.  Many years.”

Will snorted.  “So, our fine and fancy friend earned himself a punishment or two, did he?  I didn’t think they flogged noblemen.  Must have got well out of line.”

Nasir shook his head.  “Leave it, Will.”

“I’m just curious.  Didn’t have Gisburne picked for a rakehell.”

“Will.  Be kind.  Leave it.”  Nasir knew not to pry at old scars; he had a few of his own, when it came to that.  Some things it was better not to talk about.

“’S’all right, I’m not going to say anything.”  Will scowled and kicked idly against a tuft of wiry marsh grass.  “Just thought it was interesting, is all.  Maybe he was human once, after all.”

That made Nasir frown.  “What do you think he is now?”

For a moment, Will looked unsettled by the question – or possibly by the answer he wanted to give.  But then his incorrigible nature reasserted itself and he bared his teeth in that familiar feral grin.  “A right pain in the arse, most of the time.  Tossing me in the fucking water like that – you reckon he did that on purpose?”

“No.”

Will shook his head, rolling his eyes at his friend’s flat-toned response.  “Bugger me, Naz, sometimes I can’t tell if you’ve got any sense of humour at all.”

Nasir only raised an eyebrow at him.  “Sometimes,” he said, “when you make a joke, neither can I.”

Will blinked at that, not sure if he was being made mock of or not.  Nasir smiled very slightly, gave the horse a last reassuring pat, and moved off to find them some supper.

 

They pressed on that afternoon, but the encounter with the fenmen had taken a fair bite out of the day; they would not reach Grimsby by nightfall.  The sky, grey and uncertain, had been lowering all afternoon, and the prospect of a night in the open was not a welcome one.  A rough worn track through the uneven marsh grass led them to a cluster of derelict structures: a tumbled-down shack, a sheep pen with no railings, a pile of wood and stones that might once have been a hut, and a lean-to over a blackened pit where peat fires had burned.  No one had been here for some time.

The tumbled-down shack had two walls still standing, and part of its roof.  Gisburne could not stand to his full height beneath it, but at least it would keep off the worst of the rain.  A pair of scrawny ducks stewed with sliced apples in the small cooking pot made a decent meal, although Will lamented the lack of ale to go with it.  Gisburne found himself agreeing with the man, though not out loud.  He was not, he told himself, so far gone as all that.

All the same, something odd was happening.  Gisburne could admit that, if only to himself.  He even thought he knew what it was: he had felt this before, this insistent and steady pull, when he had been campaigning in France.  It happened, he supposed, when one fought alongside other men for one’s very life: camaraderie, a sense of commonality, was difficult to avoid.

Gisburne did not particularly want to feel anything in common with the men whose company he was keeping.  Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that all of this would soon be done with.  On the morrow, they would reach Grimsby, and he would find a ship and never lay eyes on these men or their difficult friends again.  The thought eased some of the moral discomfort he felt; his black and white world was subtly, yet surely, greying.  Guy found it deeply unsettling to share a fire with Will Scarlet and not be beset by the urge to strike him and string him from the nearest gallows.  Even, he thought with a flicker of still lingering amusement, if the man did have an impressive gift for invective.

Sitting back against one of the rough walls of their shelter, Guy considered what he knew about France.  He had never travelled further south than Anjou, but he had spent nearly three years fighting in the troublesome provinces of the north – Brittany, Normandy, the Vexin – following old Sir Geoffrey from one skirmish or border raid to another at the service of this lord or that.  The politics of the place had not, he supposed, been terribly different from England, except that the grudges went further back.  France – or Normandy, for that matter – was not a land where younger sons flourished, nor was it rife with opportunities for landless and sponsorless knights.  He assumed that he could find service easily enough in one noble household or another, but service would likely lead him nowhere, unless he found favour with a particularly generous lord.  Given his luck so far, Gisburne was not inclined to stake his future on that.

Outremer might be different.  Guy had heard the tales brought back by pilgrims and crusaders: great wealth, vast lands, a world of opportunity for the brave and the strong of faith.  Gisburne did not know that his faith was particularly strong, but no one had ever doubted his courage.  He regarded the Saracen thoughtfully: this compact, hard-muscled man with his strange ways and his dark hawk’s eyes and his beautiful, deadly blades.  Outremer would not, he knew, be without its challenges.  But even so.  Even so.

“Nasir.”

The Saracen, who had been amusing himself with feeding dry sedge leaves to the fire and holding them until they burned down to his fingers, looked up.  If he was surprised to hear Gisburne call him by name, he didn’t show it.  Nor did he speak.  He only turned those mirror-flat eyes on Guy and waited.  Gisburne shifted and cleared his throat, uneasy.  Scarlet made a disparaging noise.

“Out with it, Guy.  If you’ve got something to say, say it.  He don’t bite.”  The outlaw gave Gisburne a toothy grin.  “Usually.”

Nasir’s eyes flicked briefly to Will in way that seemed to warn _‘Don’t be so sure’_ , then back to Gisburne.  “What?”

“Outremer.  You’ve been there.  What’s it like?”

 _Been there_.  Nasir’s lips twitched at that.  Will snorted.

“Been there?  Where d’you think he fucking comes from, idiot?”

Guy flushed, ready to respond with something cutting and defensive, but Nasir raised a placatory hand.

“Easy, Will.”  After all, it wasn’t as if Will knew where he came from, either.  Not exactly, at any rate.  “Palestine is more than only the small kingdoms your crusaders have carved.  My people do not give up their birthright so easily.”  Nasir was looking at Gisburne as he said that; it might almost have been a challenge.  “But what you Franks call ‘Outremer’, yes, I have … been there.  Edessa, Antioch.  Jerusalem.  I know them.”

Will pricked up his ears in spite of himself.  “Wait.  You’ve seen Jerusalem?”

“I have.”  Nasir said it in the same voice he might have used to say that he had seen the sun come up that morning.  Will, used to his Saracen friend’s reticence, gave that a moment’s thought.

“’Course you have.  So, then,” he said, leaning forward curiously.  “Tell me one thing – is it worth all the fighting over?”

Nasir tipped his head, deliberately vague.  “Men fight for many reasons.  Jerusalem is a city like other cities.  It has beauty and suffering in equal measure.”

“It’s the holiest city in the world, you Godless savage!”  Guy sounded righteously appalled.  Nasir only gave him a hard look.

“Not Godless.  And Jerusalem is a holy city, yes, to all People of the Book.  Holier still before your Templars” – and he almost spat the word, as if it tasted bad in his mouth – “defiled it.”

“Rescued it from infidel hands, you mean.”

It took some effort not to give that the response it deserved.  Nasir’s fists clenched on his thighs; he drew a deep breath before answering.  “It did not need rescuing.  It belongs to God.  No man can own that.” 

“Then why take it back?” Gisburne demanded, as if making some telling point.  Nasir breathed in again, and out very slowly.  His voice was icily calm.

“Because,” he said, “when _Al_ _Haram al-Sharif,_ what the Jews call the Temple Mount, is desecrated and its holy buildings turned from places of worship to barracks for soldiers who kill without discretion, and to stables for their horses, this is an offence to Allah.”  The mere thought of _al-Aqsa_ turned into a Templar barracks, and of _al_ _Masjid Qubbat As-Sakhrah_ treated so poorly, its beautiful golden dome soaring overhead as the glowing mosaics were cracked and scarred by horses’ hooves _,_ still burned.  And that was not even the worst of it, not by a long way.  If these men had seen what he had seen …  Nasir took another breath, slow and controlled, and pushed those images

(a dead child in the street, its head beaten to pulp against the hard stone walls; a woman keening with blood on her skirts and a broken-necked baby in her arms; smoke billowing from a doorway)

away.  “And when our people are denied their homes and slain in the streets for their faith, this is an offence as well.”

Will shook his head thoughtfully and glanced sideways at Gisburne.  “That don’t seem right to me,” he said.  “And I’m not a religious man, mind, but there’s something off about turning a House of God into a stock pen.”

“Not,” Gisburne said stiffly, “when it’s an infidel god.”

“The same God,” Nasir snapped.  _Ya Allah_ , but he was tired of explaining this.  Why did these ignorant Franks not understand?  “Your God, mine, the same.  It is only the words that are different.”  He made a sharp, cutting gesture.  “Enough of this.  You do not go to Jerusalem.  You are not a man for shrines and holy places.  If you go eastward, you go seeking something else, yes?”

Guy wanted to bridle at the Saracen’s tone, but he could not deny that what the man said was true.  He was not interested in a holy pilgrimage; his goals were rather more worldly than that.  He gave an unwilling nod.  “Yes.  You can keep your shrines, I hardly care.  But I have heard that there is land out there, for those with the courage to fight for it.  Wealth to be won in the trade that travels the Silk Road.  Is this true?”

“It is,” Nasir allowed reluctantly.  “In part.  There is land, but you will pay for it in blood, both in the gaining and the keeping.  And the desert has seen more death and covered more bodies in its shifting sands than you can know.”

“But there is land.”  Gisburne was insistent.  Nasir’s brows lowered in frustration.

“Yes, perhaps, but not as you think it.”  He made a small gesture with the fingers of one hand that seemed to take in the whole of Lincolnshire in one motion.  “This, this is rich land, soft land, green and good.  There, is sand and shale, with patches of green like gems, and guarded like gems too.”  He sighed, shrugged.  “It is a hard land, and harder still since your people have come there.  But if a man is strong, and wise, and well-favoured, he may find himself a place.”

“And wealth.”

Nasir nodded.  “Yes. Or ruin.”

Gisburne seemed to consider that.  “What,” he asked after a moment, “would a man need?  To make a start?”

Another shrug.  “Himself.  A strong heart.  A sponsor at one of your Frankish courts.”  Nasir shook his head.  “Easier for you in France, I think.”

Will smirked.  “Come on, Naz, be fair.  You just don’t want him trampling about in your country the way he has in ours.”

That, Nasir supposed, was true, as far as it went.  There was something painful in thinking of Gisburne walking the warm spice-soaked streets of Damascus while he himself continued his exile in this damp green land.  Perhaps that was unworthy of him, but he could not deny it was there.  He lowered his eyes to the fire, silent.

_It would be difficult, but I could try._

_No, Rob.  Not yet.  Not yet._

One day, though.  He would not die in this place; for his soul’s sake, he had to believe that.  His bones would rest in the land of his ancestors, _inshallah_.  He would walk the sands again, and see the minarets rising above the cities that edged the desert places.  Until then, this damp green land – and the friends he had found in it, unbelievers but true of heart – would do.  _Inshallah.  Inshallah._

“They say,” Gisburne went on, oblivious as ever, “that the heat is shocking.  Especially in the summer months.  And that everyone wears silk and scented oils.  And that the markets are a wonder of the world, and that there is a bathhouse on every street.  Is that true?”

“No,” Nasir said quietly.  “Not every street.  And silk is for those who can pay for it.  The markets are true, though, and the heat.  For you, with your colouring, it would be a furnace.  I have seen Frankish knights roast and die in their metal shells, too stubborn to know the desert is stronger than they.”  His eyes on the flames had a far-away look, and his voice had lowered until his words had the cadence of almost a prayer.  “In the summer, the days are burning, the nights a brief relief.  Winters are short, and cool.  The mountains rise to the sky, with pasture land on their slopes, and lions and wild dogs stalk, ready to take both man and beast.  In the desert, the ways are marked by old bones, and sometimes the dunes shift and paths are lost, or the sand may turn and soften underfoot and pull men to their deaths.  Water is more precious than gold.  And, sometimes, when the wind is off the sands, it will scour away a man’s very skin and leave him flayed raw.”

Guy wrinkled his nose, unimpressed.  “It sounds like Hell.”

“ _La_ ,” Nasir replied, more quietly still.  “ _Laysa Jahannam.  Bayt_.”

 _Not hell.  Home_.  The words had come from some place so deep that he didn’t even know he had spoken them in Arabic.  They made his heart clench.  Suddenly, he couldn’t stand to have these men watching him.  Everything about them cut at him, from their puzzled expressions to their foreigner’s eyes, reminding him how far he was from anything he knew.  He stood abruptly and left, without a word of excuse.  Will and Gisburne stared after him, startled.

“What did that mean?” Gisburne demanded.  Will made a rueful face.

“I think it means he’s had enough of talking.  Said more just then than he usually would in three days.”  Nor, Will thought, had he ever heard Nasir speak of his home before in anything but the barest of words, and that only when he was pressed.  Clearly something either he or Gisburne had said had touched a nerve.  He did not tell Gisburne that, though. 

“Huh.”  Gisburne scowled.  “Moody for a savage, isn’t he?”

“He can be,” Will agreed, doing his best to sound unconcerned.  “He’ll be back when he’s ready.  In the meantime, how’s about you give me a hand with this?”  He shook a small flask at Gisburne, eyes gleaming.

“What is it?”

“Mead.  Got it off that fen bastard you killed.  Only thing he had worth taking.”  Will unstoppered the flask and took a long swallow before offering it to Gisburne.  “Here.  Men who fight together ought t’be able to drink together after, that’s what I say.  Naz wouldn’t touch it, even if he was here, so that just leaves you.”

“You’re offering me a drink?”  Gisburne might have sound less surprised if Scarlet had sprouted wings.  Will barked a short laugh.

“Seems like it.  But just this once, mind.  Don’t go getting any funny ideas.  I still don’t like you.”

“I don’t like you either,” Guy replied truthfully, taking the flask and tipping it back.  The mead was raw and hard; it made him gasp, eyes watering.  “Damned wolfshead.” 

Scarlet grinned and took the flask back.  “I can drink to that.”

And he did.

 

Grimsby was grey and crowded and smelled of tar and herrings.  Gisburne was surprised at how easily the three of them moved through the town – a pair of wolfsheads, one of them an armed Saracen, and a displaced and poorly-dressed Norman noble did not make for the most common of travelling companions, after all.  But in Grimsby, it seemed, no one much cared.  Trading ports, Guy supposed, were like that.  Men came and went, and so long as they paid the excise men and did not pick too many fights, the locals barely looked up.

Nasir, who had stayed away until the night was half gone, and who had returned to the shelter only to kick Will awake for the night’s second watch, moved through the town as if he navigated port cities every day of his life.  He had barely spoken a word all day, reacting neither to Scarlet’s jibes nor Gisburne’s determinedly aggrieved manner.  It put Guy in mind of the way the man had behaved on the day that FitzRoy had brought him out of Newark: as if he were delivering a package, not dealing with a person. 

Now, with the waterfront in sight, the Saracen swung away from the port and towards a small row of clothiers’ shops, their guild signs creaking overhead in the steady breeze.  Scarlet frowned, baffled.

“What the hell are you playing at, Nasir?  The ships are that way.”

“I know.”  Nasir barely spared him a glance.  “And no ship’s master will take time for a beggar in rags.  Gisburne is noble born.  It is best if he looks it.”

That made Guy stare, briefly startled.  He had not expected to be accorded his rank, false as it may have been, by either of these men; it stunned him how much it mattered.  The Saracen was probably right, too; it would be easier to negotiate passage if he looked like he had resources to spare.  Nasir nodded to him and tossed him a small purse clanking with coin.

“Find what you need.  We will wait.”

Will cleared his throat.  “Actually, there was a tavern just back -” 

“We,” Nasir said again, with clear emphasis, “will wait.”

With a resigned sigh, Will slumped against a railing and folded his arms in exaggerated patience.  “All right, then,” he said.  “We’ll bloody wait.”

As Gisburne moved off, Will watched him warily, with narrowed eyes.  To Nasir, he said, “Aren’t you worried he’ll say something?”

“No.”  Which was true; this was Lincolnshire, far beyond de Rainault’s influence – and besides, even if Gisburne did speak (which Nasir doubted), and even if anyone believed him, it seemed unlikely that Grimsby’s Watch would turn out on the spot.  Will caught the clipped, brusque tone of Nasir’s voice and sighed again.  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, screwing up his face in an expression somewhere between reluctance and concern. 

“Look, Naz.  I ain’t good at this, but … you all right?”

Nasir dismounted, hitching his bay and Gisburne’s dun to the railing next to Will.  He didn’t look at his friend.  “Yes.”

Scarlet pursed his lips thoughtfully and shook his head.  “Yeah.  Well.  I ain’t so sure I believe that.”

That got no response.  Will grimaced.  He wished Robin was here; the man might be painfully over-bred at times, but at least he understood Nasir’s silences.  Will liked his Saracen friend well enough, and respected him more than most, but he didn’t understand him at all.  He tried again.  “You went off like a scalded cat last night, and you’ve been brooding all bloody day, and now you won’t even let a man buy himself an honest drink.”  He frowned inwardly at that last, thinking that he shouldn’t have said that, but he had not been lying when he’d said he wasn’t good at this.  Soft words did not come naturally to him.  “I just …  Look, Naz, if it’s something I said, you know I didn’t mean nowt by it.  An’ if it’s what Gisburne said, Hell’s teeth, man, that’s _Gisburne_.  He’s always calling us names.”

Nasir’s lips twitched, briefly softening his expression.  Ah, well, he had always known that Scarlet had a better heart than he liked to show.  “No, Will.  It is not for you to apologise.  It is my manners that failed.  The matter is of no concern.  An ambush of old memories, no more.”

That, Will could understand.  Memories were tricky beasts when it came to that.  He’d not be without

(Elena)

his for all the world, but sometimes …  Oh, gods above and below, sometimes.  He nodded in understanding.  “I hear that.  ’S’all right then.  Good.”

Down the muddy street, a trio of men tumbled out of the tavern, laughing and shoving one another like boys.  Will looked after them wistfully.  Nasir saw him watching and relented with a quiet smile.  “Will.  Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.  This does not need you as well.  But no trouble, yes?”

“No trouble.  Just a mug of ale and a bowl of whatever they’ve got to eat.”  Will pushed himself off the railing, looking brighter than he had all day.  “You want something?  I can bring you a meat pasty, if you’d like.”

“No.”  Nasir repressed a shudder.  There was no telling what unclean offerings might be in something like that.  “Thank you.”

As Will strode off with the air of a man with a job to do, Nasir scanned the street from long habit, looking for dangers, marking ways of escape.  A large rat ran from one of the narrow alley-ways that led to the waterfront and scuttled down the street, the way Scarlet had gone.  Nasir shuddered again at the disconcerting mental image of a grubby meat pasty garnished with rat tail.  No, let Will eat at the local tavern if he liked.  Nasir, who had seen too much, knew better.

 

The Saracen had been more than right.  A new set of clothes, a sweep or three of the barber’s knife, and Gisburne felt a new man.  More to the point, he looked like one as well.  The ship’s master he spoke to called him ‘my lord’ and fawned about him like a hound hoping for a scratch, once he saw the money pouch Gisburne wore on his belt, under a neatly-cut blue mantle.  Guy found himself oddly uncomfortable with the man’s obsequious behaviour.  It had been so long since anyone had treated him with anything beyond contempt, or utter indifference, that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be grovelled to.  He was not sure how he felt about that.  He did know that it seemed very strange to play the lordling again.  Gisburne did not think he had ever in his life felt so far removed from who he was.

He could not have said why.  He had told the ship’s master nothing that wasn’t true, after all; his name, that he was seeking passage to Normandy, that he could pay his way.  It might have been that he was leaving with so little; no squire or servants, no horse, no arms or armour at all – nothing, in fact, but what he stood up in.  Gisburne had always valued the trappings of his rank before now, sensing perhaps that without them, people would see him for who he was: bastard-born and unworthy of the title he bore.  Now trappings seemed to matter less, and his title was all he had.  He supposed he had no choice but to be worthy of it.

The Saracen was waiting for him at the end of the dock.  He appeared to be idling in the pale sun that peeked through the tattered clouds overhead, watching a group of porters armed with heavy iron hooks shifting wool bales from one pile to another, but Gisburne was not fooled.  Cats looked like that before they decided to hunt; the Saracen knew exactly what was going on around him.  Scarlet was nowhere to be seen.  Most likely he was in some dockside alehouse, picking fights and losing at dice.  Nasir, who had been leaning comfortably against a barrel of pickled herring, stood straight as Gisburne approached.

“You have passage?”

“Yes.”  Gisburne gestured to the ship he had found: a broad-beamed merchant vessel, high-prowed and well-crewed.  “The master tells me he leaves tomorrow, with the tide.  To Margate first, then across the Channel to Barfluer.  He even gave me the name of a decent inn for the night.”

Nasir nodded.  “You will go?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”  There was no real bitterness in Gisburne’s tone; he even smiled a little, though it came crooked and self-aware.  “There’s nothing for me here.”

“No.”  Nasir turned to glance warningly at a grubby urchin who had strayed too close, looking for a purse to cut.  The child veered away, wide-eyed; the Saracen looked back to Gisburne.  “For you, France is best.”

“France,” Gisburne agreed.  “Or Outremer.  Once I have coin enough to make the voyage.”

Nasir schooled himself to impassivity over that.  He inclined his head, very slightly.  “Or Outremer.  As you say.” 

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then Nasir shrugged and lifted the bundle that had been resting at his feet, propped against a coil of rope.  Gisburne had not even seen it.  The Saracen held it out casually, as if he were passing a waterskin to a friend who had complained of thirst.  “For you.  For a new start.”

A sword.  Gisburne took it, turned it in his hands, almost in disbelief.  No Damascene steel here, only a plain blade and a non-descript hilt, and an ordinary foot-soldier’s scabbard to house it, but still a sword.  Gisburne stared.  Nasir made a small negating gesture, stilling the young nobleman’s words before he even thought them.

“It is not much to the eye, but it sits well in the hand.  It is honest, I think.  It will serve until you can earn something better.”

“But … how …?”  Guy frowned, floundering.  He was not used to gifts or favours, especially not from a man who was still, at the heart of things, his enemy.  It left him quite off-balance.  “Why?”

“Because you will need it,” the Saracen told him, with the air of a man pointing out the obvious.

“But … when did …?”

“ _Ya Allah_ , you Franks, always you question everything.”  Nasir was smiling as if at some private joke.  In fact, he had taken the opportunity to sell the horses, and the sword had been part of the price.  Port towns, after all, thrived on trade.  “Take it and be thankful.”

That, Gisburne thought, was good advice.  He swallowed, disconcerted at how oddly rough his throat felt, and belted the sword about his hips.  The weight of it was comfortable, reassuringly familiar.  “My thanks,” he managed.  “For this.  And …”

Another negating flick of the hand met that.  “For the sword, I accept your thanks.  For the other, it is not worth mentioning.”  Nasir was not about to tell Gisburne that if he owed gratitude to anyone, he owed it to Rob, who had not been willing to let a brother of his die like a dog, even if it was what he deserved.  Some secrets were Rob’s to tell, or to keep, as he saw fit.  Instead, he said, “One thing.  If you do go east, avoid landing at Jaffa: the excise men are vultures.  Avoid, too, Tyre and Sidon: the slavers are worse.  For you, perhaps, _Akka_ is best, or Tripoli.”

“ _Akka_?”  Guy sounded puzzled.  Nasir’s brows lowered in irritation.

“Acre, you Franks say.”  The word felt ugly on his tongue.

“Or Tripoli.”  Guy nodded.  “I’ll remember.”

Nasir paused and looked at Gisburne consideringly, then gave a resigned shrug, as if he had decided to do something he did not much like.  “If Tripoli, you could do worse than find a man named Hugh de Lusignan of Tortosa.  He is cousin by marriage to the Constable of Tripoli.”

“You know these people?”  It was hard to hide his surprise; Guy had not really considered what circles his irksome wolfsheads might have moved in before they decided to make Sherwood their battlefield.  This one, it seemed, had moved in some interesting circles indeed.

“Hugh I have … dealt with.  Once.  Remind him of the man who won his grey colt off him, and then gave it back.”  Another shrug, almost dismissive.  “He may speak to you, if he remembers.”

It was hard to tell from the Saracen’s aloof tone, but Guy thought that whatever dealings he’d had with this Hugh of Tortosa might have been sharp-edged.  He hoped for his own sake, they had not been too sharp; he did not want to cut himself on old daggers.

But those were concerns for another day.  For now, he had enough to worry about in just getting himself to France and finding his way once he was there.  Even now, Gisburne could not quite believe what was happening.  It was hard to think that only a handful of days ago he had been squatting in the stinking dark waiting for death.  Now he was standing on a busy dock with a ship waiting at anchor, making plans for the rest of his life.  The distance from the one to the other was vast; Guy was still not sure how – or why – any of this had happened.  He furrowed his brow and spread his hands, turning puzzled and needful eyes on the Saracen before him.

“Nasir.  All of this – Newark, FitzRoy, the sword, everything – can you … no.  Will you tell me why?”

He’d had to ask.  Too much had happened, changing his world, for him not to, and never mind what he might be told.  Nasir’s dark eyes studied him, thoughtful and slow.  Gisburne bore it for as long as he could.  At last, he burst out, “Well, come on, man, damn you!  Why?”

His answer, when it came, was not what Guy had expected.  Nasir never looked away from him, his gaze driving through him with a steady, considered intensity that Gisburne felt in his bones.

“Because,” the Saracen said quietly, “true nobility is more than only breeding and blood.  It needs something less common.  Tact.  Integrity.  The art of grace towards one’s inferiors.  That is why.”

For the second time in the space of minutes, Gisburne found he did not know what to say.  More than only blood, the Saracen had said… and if Hood – no, Huntingdon – had shown true nobility by his grace, maybe a well-bred bastard could do the same.  Maybe one day he could.  Finally, Gisburne nodded his head, jerky with emotion.  His voice was the same as the rest of him, husky and off-key.  “I think I understand.”

Nasir dipped his head, very slightly.  “Yes,” he said.  “Perhaps you do.”  He bowed, formal and precise, nothing subservient in him.  “Peace go with you, Sir Guy.”

Alone on the dock, Gisburne stood and watched as the Saracen walked away.

 

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Scarlet said for the dozenth time that day.  He grinned over his shoulder at Nasir.  “I saw it with my own eyes, but I still don’t bloody believe it.”

Gisburne’s ship had left as its master had promised, sailing with the morning tides.  It had taken with it a hold full of wool and pickled herring, and a handful of paying passengers.  One of them, standing tall on the foredeck with his fair hair lifting in the breeze, had been Sir Guy of Gisburne.  If he had seen the two outlaws watching from the bank of the estuary, he gave no sign.  Will went on.  “Well, he’s some other bugger’s problem now.  Glad to see the back of him.  Here’s a question, though:  where did he get that bloody sword?”

Nasir said nothing, walking on in silence.  Will was more than capable of holding a conversation without him, and in any case, there were some questions he had no intention of answering.  Will grunted.

“Don’t suppose it matters, does it?  Here, how many days back to Sherwood?  You taking us the long way around again?”

“No.”

“Good.”  Will marched on a few paces without speaking.  Nasir savoured the quiet.  Then: “It’s a pity you sold those horses, Naz.  We’d get home quicker if we rode.”

“You don’t ride.”

“I can!”  Will sounded indignant.  He whirled in the road, walking backwards, arms wide in protest.  “I can ride.  I just don’t like to.  A man’s legs ought t’be good enough, I reckon.”  His heel struck a stray stone; he stumbled and swore.  Nasir rolled his eyes.

“You can ride?  You can barely walk.”

“Oh, very funny.”  Swinging back to face where he was going, Scarlet settled easily into the rhythm of the march.  “Horses are faster, is all.”

“Faster if you can ride.”

“I can, I tell you!”

Drawing in a deep breath, Nasir shook his head and sent up a silent prayer.  It was going to be a long walk back to Sherwood.  He would need all the patience he could get.

 

It had been nigh on a fortnight since Nasir had left.  Robin had been trying not to think of all the things that might go wrong.  On his last trip to Halstead, he’d been given a letter from his cousin Harry: a brief note thanking him for the horse and telling him to find a less imposing messenger next time.  That had made Robin smile; he had known he could rely on Harry.  FitzRoy had always had a strong sense of family, in spite – or maybe because – of his illegitimate birth; and besides, Harry had never been able to resist an adventure.

The letter had given him some reassurance.  His faith in Nasir’s abilities gave him more.  His Saracen friend was unrelentingly competent and deeply practical.  He would carry out the task Robin had given him if he could, but he would not die trying.  He would bring himself home

(home?)

with Scarlet in tow, and tell Robin he was a fool for having let Will stray in the first place.

He had received another message in Halstead, too.  Marion had agreed to see him.  They had met, briefly and rather painfully, in the small herb garden near the infirmary.  Marion had been chaperoned by an elderly nun with kind eyes, who had accorded them privacy of a sort, setting herself on a bench where she could see them, but not hear what they were saying.  That was as well, Robin thought, looking back.  He would not have wanted to share those words with a stranger.

Marion would not be returning to Sherwood.  He knew that now, with the same certainty that told him that the leaves would fall and the winter snows would come.  She was not for him; she never had been.  Even now, her heart was Loxley’s: the May Queen searching for her Summer King in the winter shadows and pining for the spring.  That saddened Robin, and for more reasons than his own aching heart.  Marion would spend her life mourning that loss, enshrining Loxley as that irreproachable other against whom all other flames would pale and, in doing so, she would let her own flame, the spark that had once burned in her so bright, fade and die.  The past was another place, Robin knew; no one could linger there too long and not lose something vital in themselves.  Life was hope, and a series of tomorrows, but for Marion it would always be yesterday.

That knowledge was painful, but also strangely liberating.  Robin could not live in the past, and he could not fight the dead.  Marion’s choices were not his to make, and his own choices were simple enough: beat himself bloody against her unbreachable walls, or grieve for what might have been and move on.

He felt better for having come to that understanding.  He would feel better yet once Nasir was back.  It was strange to miss the man’s company so much, but at the same time it was not strange at all.  There was no one else he could talk to, no one else who would watch him with a sure and steady gaze and say everything that needed saying with only the flick of his fingers.  John was a good man, but his world had never grown larger than Sherwood and shepherding.  Much could talk the ears off a donkey, but he was seldom to the point.  And Tuck, whatever else he was, was still a man of the Church: whenever the portly monk folded his hands, Robin felt like a child caught avoiding the Confessional.  As for Will … Robin laughed quietly.  Scarlet was irrepressible, course, uncultured, and had a heart the size of a harvest moon, but he had never been able to just keep his mouth shut. 

And none of them had those dark hunter’s eyes that followed Robin’s soul on every turning it took. 

He had taken to watching the Newark road.  There was no call for it; Nasir would find him, even if he shifted camp to the other side of Sherwood, though the man would not thank him for making his task harder.  He watched anyway, because he knew they would come this way, and because it gave him something to do.

Robin heard Will before he saw him.  The man seemed to be in the middle of a bawdy story about a serving wench in a French alehouse.  “…an’ then I went out the window, and she went for him with the fire-tongs, spitting like a hellcat, and when I finally got someone to unbolt the door, the dogs had eaten my supper and some bastard had stolen my boots!”  Robin grinned, wondering what Nasir, with his restraint and his Eastern grace, was making of that.  He decided to do the decent thing and rescue his friend from more tales of Will’s exploits.  He stepped out into the road.

“You’re back.  I’ve been waiting.”

Nasir showed no surprise at all, but a brief glow of relief flickered in his eyes; he had spent the last three miles debating how hard he would have to hit Scarlet to shut him up, and whether or not it was worth it.  Now he dipped his head in greeting and thanked Allah the Merciful for Rob’s timing.  “ _Salaam, sadiqi_.”

“ _Salaam_.”  Robin clasped his friend’s wrist, pulling him into a quick, welcoming embrace.  Nasir tensed slightly, but returned the gesture easily enough, stepping back with a smile.  Will, though, did not have time for niceties.  Without preamble, he clipped Robin across the top of the head.

“All that fucking sneaking around, and it turns out it’s bloody Gisburne,” he growled.  “Why did I march all the way to Grimsby and back for Gisburne?  You want to tell me that?”

“I don’t know, Will,” Robin replied sweetly, with a smile that could have sliced stone.  “No one asked you to.  I thought you were going to Lichfield.”

“Yeah, well.”  Will had the decency to look a little abashed.  “No other way to find out what was going on, was there?”

“You could have asked.”

“Would you have told me?”

“Probably not,” Robin admitted.  “But it might have been worth a try.”

“Bloody noblemen,” Will said, though he was smiling in spite of himself.  “All the fucking same.  Never let the rest of us know what’s going on.”  He pointed accusingly at Nasir.  “And he’s damned-well noble born, too.  He must be.  No bloody way he can be so at home telling people what to do and not be, and that’s God’s truth.”

Nasir only blinked mildly and folded his arms over his chest.  Robin laughed.

“Go back to camp, Will.  Much went into Wickham the other day, so there’s mead and ale.  And Tuck’s rabbit stew.”

“And bread?  Fresh bread?”  Will cocked his head, like a hound who had heard his master’s voice in the distance.

“Yes, fresh this morning.”

“That’ll do me, then.”  When it came to a decent meal, Scarlet did not need to be asked twice.  It came of soldiering, he’d have told anyone who asked; a soldier learned to take good food where he could find it, and Will had taken that well to heart.  He strode off into the trees without looking back.

Robin and Nasir stood where they were in the road, watching until Will was gone, enjoying the silence.  After a moment, Robin glanced to his friend, carefully casual.

“Noble born, are you, Malik?”

“Will thinks so.”  Nasir’s lips quirked at Robin’s deliberate use of that name, with its strong and royal meaning.  As if, he thought, Rob did not know the status of his birth exactly.  “I am sure my father, may Allah the Compassionate grant him grace, would be gratified.”

“Well, you know Will.  He can be surprisingly perceptive, sometimes.”  Robin grinned.  “You could tell them, Malik.  What’s another royal-blooded noble around here?  We’re almost as common as sparrows.”

 “We are not,” Nasir said firmly.  “And in any case, it makes no matter.  Just as your kinship with Gisburne makes no matter.  Some things are our own, to tell or not.”

“Yes,” Robin said.  “I suppose.”  He paused, then said, “Where did you ship him off to?”

“France.  It seemed best.”

“He went happily enough?”

Happy?  Nasir made a face.  Happiness and Gisburne, in his observation, were distant kin at best.  Time and kindness might change that, but …  He shrugged.  “He was … content.  He spoke of travelling further.”

“Outremer?”

“Perhaps.”

Robin nodded, thoughtful.  “I wish him well of it, then.  So long as it keeps him away from Huntingdon, and away from us.” 

“He will not be back, I think.”  Unlacing his waterskin from his belt, Nasir took a mouthful and then said, “Your cousin sends his regards.”

That made Robin flash his quick, bright grin.  “Harry?  I know.  He sent me a letter.  You made an impression, by the sounds of it.”

“I?”  Nasir’s brows went up.  He took a long breath, considering that.  “He thought me your servant, at first.  I told him I am not.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“And his squires seemed to think I would turn into a pillar of fire, like an _ifrit_ , and burn them to ash.”  Nasir frowned and rubbed lightly at his jaw.  “What do you Franks tell your children about my people?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Robin assured him, with that spark in his eye that Nasir had come to know meant that he was joking.  “Only that you eat babies for breakfast and that you summon devils from the sands to fight for you.  And Harry has squires these days?”  The idea made him laugh out loud.  “Sweet Christ, who would trust their sons to Harry?”

“He schools them well.”  Nasir tipped his head.  “They will learn from him what they might not from another.”

“I’m sure.”  Robin grinned.  “Harry always was a disruptive influence.”

“I think he would say the same of you,” Nasir pointed out, with the faintest hint of a smile.  Robin laughed again.

“Ah, but I’m an outlaw; I’m meant to be disruptive.”

Nasir, who could not argue with that, simply bowed his head.  Robin nodded, suddenly serious.

“And speaking of disruptive influences,” he said, lifting his chin in the direction that Scarlet had gone, “we’ve got Will to contend with.  I was hoping no one but we two – well, and Gisburne and Harry, I suppose – would ever need know about this, but Will won’t keep his mouth shut.  He’ll have told the others everything by now.”

“He will tell them what he knows,” Nasir agreed.  “Which is little.”

“It’s enough to  raise questions.  What do I tell them when they ask why I’d even lift a finger to save Gisburne?”

Silence answered that.  Robin, used to his friend’s pauses, did not push Nasir to speak.  After a short while, Nasir shrugged very slightly and said, “Tell them mercy is a virtue.  And so is forgiveness.”

There was a compliment in that, sidelong, but sincere nonetheless.  Robin

(I say unto you not seven times)

touched Nasir’s wrist, very lightly.  “Thank you, my friend.  And thank you for doing this at all.  I couldn’t have asked anyone else.”

“It was no bother,” Nasir replied, with the faintest smile.  “I have done worse things.”

Well, so he probably had.  Robin nodded, accepting that, and started back towards camp.  Nasir fell in behind him, a reassuring presence at his back.  Robin wondered what Gisburne had made of being shepherded by a Saracen and chuckled low in his chest.  Dropping back half a step, he waited for Nasir to draw level and asked, “Did he give you any trouble?”

“Gisburne,” Nasir wanted to know, “or Will?”

Robin gave a wry grin.  “Either,” he said with a shrug.  “Both.”

Nasir tilted his head a little, laconic as ever.  “Gisburne?  A little.  Not much.  Will?”  He slanted Robin a significant look.  “More.”

“I thought he would.  I shouldn’t have let him off his leash.”

Nasir laughed under his breath.  “As you say, _sadiqi_.”

Robin couldn’t help it; he laughed too, stopping where he was and turning to his friend, halting him with a hand on one shoulder.  “It’s good to have you back, Malik.  Truly.”

There was something other than humour in the young man’s voice.  Nasir heard it and frowned, looking at him with appraising eyes.

“You feared I would not come?”

“No!” Robin said quickly – and then, with a sigh, “Yes.  A little.  I mean, what you said about obligation and blood, and the colours in the desert …”

“And about wanting to live a little longer, perhaps?”  Nasir swatted him about the shoulders, what began as a cuff ending as a warm grip on Robin’s arm.  “You must listen better, Rob.  I will not leave without your blessing.  To slip away like a thief in the night – this is not the act of a friend.”

“No, I know.”  Robin drew a deep breath and gave a short, derisive laugh, aimed at himself.  “Stupid of me, but … Marion’s not coming back.  I’ve lost her.  And … I couldn’t stand to lose you too.”

“Ah.”  Nasir lowered his eyes briefly, wondering what to say.  He decided to say the easier thing and leave the other.  It was safer that way.  “I am sorry about Marion, Rob.”

Robin nodded, as if Nasir had said something else, then gave himself a quick shake and sighed.  “I knew, I think.  I just didn’t want to know.  If that makes sense.”

“It does.”  Nasir inclined his head carefully.  “The heart does not answer to logic.”

“No,” Robin agreed.  His eyes caught Nasir’s and lingered, then suddenly dropped away.  “No, it doesn’t.  But it mends.  With care and time.  _Inshallah_.”

That earned him a quiet smile.  “ _Inshallah_.”

“And, if God is very kind, there may even be some food left when we get back to camp.”  Flicking his hair out of his eyes, Robin laughed, trying for normality.  “If Will doesn’t eat us out of supplies.  You must be starving.”

“No,” Nasir said.  “Not starving.”  Which was true, as far as it went.  If he had been starved of anything over the last handful of days, it had not been food.  There were things in the world more sustaining than merely bread and meat, things which fed the very soul.  Robin’s pale hair shone softly in the forest’s gentle light.

“Well, in that case, there’s no hurry.”  Robin took a deep breath, oddly grateful; he did not relish facing his friends’ accusing eyes when they learned where Nasir had been, and why.  Gisburne had cause them all more pain than Robin knew; when it came to what he had done, mercy seemed a weak excuse.  As for the other, the truer reason … Robin was not sure how much he wanted to think on that.  His words came reluctantly, almost in spite of himself.  “Malik.  Tell me.  What was … What is he like?”

Nasir understood exactly what he was being asked.  _How much are he and I the same?_   Robin had demanded that of him in a forest glade, with pain in his voice and fear in his eyes; he was asking the same thing now.  Nasir gave it the thought it deserved. 

He remembered Gisburne as he had been when FitzRoy had first brought him out of Newark’s gaol, worn and angry and shouting insults, and the low desperation in his voice when he had asked why anyone had come for him at all.  He recalled Gisburne’s eyes, unguarded and full of wonder at the Damascene steel in his hands, and the way they had shadowed and shuttered at the first hint of rebuke.  He thought of the young nobleman prostrate with laughter at Will’s lunacy, and his courage in holding his ground against armed men in the first place.  And he remembered him standing in the prow of the ship, fair hair shining and face turned forward, braving his new beginning.  Just as Robin had braved his new beginning not so long ago, when he had walked from his father’s castle and lands, and the title to which he had been born, to take on the mantle of the Hooded Man.  That had needed courage too. 

They were, in some ways, not so unalike.  _Could I be him_ , Robin had asked, and Nasir thought now, as he had then, that the answer was no.  But, if Allah the Compassionate showed him mercy, and if the world was a little kind, Gisburne could become something more like the brother who had saved him and who he didn’t know he had.  That spark was in him, somewhere.  In Robin’s line, Nasir had cause to know, the blood ran strong.  And a man could not change that.

Those, though, were not words that would bring Robin the comfort he wanted.  Not in this tongue, at least, rude as it was and lacking in subtlety.  Nasir wondered what to tell him.  He settled in the end for honesty, as far as he could. 

With a smile, Nasir let his hand go to Robin’s face, tracing the fall of his cheek and the line of his jaw to lift his pale

(beautiful)

eyes to the light.  Looking into them, he said what his friend needed to hear.  If his words were also the truth of his heart, so much the better.

“No, Rob.  There is no resemblance.”


End file.
